


Rosemary and Time

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-31
Updated: 2003-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: by Palladia, Storie, and Wain





	Rosemary and Time

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Rosemary and Time

  


  


  


_Rosemary and Time_

By Wain, Palladia and Storie 

A _Highlander_ Round Robin fanfic 

This originally appeared as a Round Robin story on   
the Highlander Holyground Forum 

* * *

Those eyes held his gaze with chilling authority and he resisted the unspoken demand of submission to their invasive confidence. At length he was able to respond with characteristic nonchalance, with the cool smile and pragmatic demeanor that set him apart from his fellows and identified him under any guise even as it concealed him in all. 

Brother. The word sentenced them both to death and worse than Death, the fate they had decreed thousands of others throughout hundreds of years... 

_You killed them? All of them ..._

So who judges me ... 

Never is a really long time ... 

Poor, tormented creature ... 

There are things worse than death, Doctor ... 

Demonic laughter echoed through the void of centuries, visitations of Apocalypse, Betrayal, Apathy, Time. 

_You got any words of wisdom for me?_

Tell them the truth, Doctor Polidori! Tell them I have been faithful... 

Defend yourself... 

There are things worse than death, Doctor... 

**Remember...**

He woke with a start and sat upright, grasping at blankets, at memories, at straws. Just like those idiots in horror movies, he thought incongruously. No one can ever simply have a dream, and wake up, and roll over. They always have to spring straight up like a bloody jack-in-the-box. 

He threw off the coverings and padded to the bathroom, bent double over the sink and rinsed the sweat from his face with cool water, soothing away the revenant onslaught. He drank from his cupped hands... 

_'I cooled it in the river for you...'_

...and squeezed his eyes shut against the legion of living and dead who resurrected ruthlessly when he was vulnerable, asleep, to reenact history with their own versions of truth and pseudo-truth and might-have-been suggestions and what-if deliberations in the depths of his dreams. 

Hot tears salted the now-icy water and he splashed them defiantly away. Could some wrongs never be made right? Did enough centuries not exist in which to outlive his failures? 

When his emotions were under tentative control he stretched out across the bed, ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the ceiling, wondering that he could enjoy nights of blissful sleep for years only to be attacked without warning by multitudes of wraiths who converged inconsistent but overwhelming from ages long forgotten. 

Except there was always warning, in retrospect; some small event, unnoticed at the time, that settled into his subconscious and became a vehicle for the invasion of his dreams, as effective as any Trojan horse. 

§ § § § § 

**August 1692, Salem**

'Rosemary, hello! Poor dear, your sweat waters the earth and you are weary, but the garden abundantly rewards your efforts.' 

'Sarah! You shouldn't be out alone!' 

'Oh, please don't patronize me. My husband kept watching for me to play the heathen until I feared I would turn silly and condemn myself. I feigned myself overwrought from delivery and went to stay with my mother. Consider yourself fortunate, Mary, that you did not wed that man. He is a cold and rigid counselor, intimate only in the performance of his duty to the continuance of the mortal race. His infant wails constantly, as though tortured by the reality of the world into which it was reluctantly born. I love the child, but I would much rather be alone than be in service to his father.' 

'Bridle your tongue, Sarah, please, they'll hang you for such words!' 

'No one will hear them but you, dear Rosemary. I thought you daft for turning down so many proposals, and now I would eagerly relinquish ten years of my life if I could trade places with you but for an instant and experience the peace and joy and lightness of your heart.' 

'Hush, now. Let's at least go into the barn; can you manage the ladder? We can talk in the loft. You have my sympathy in that you are unhappy, but you must nevertheless be prudent of countenance and wise of speech. Sometimes I feel the very trees are eavesdropping on my thoughts, that they might betray me to the executioners in the village.' 

'I can not conceive what thoughts could sully your mind and taint the purity of your soul, Rosemary. You are yet innocent and carefree; twenty-four, indeed, but younger in spirit than the rest of us whose ignorance was counted a dowry in its own right, and a benefit of which we were robbed on our wedding nights.' 

'Stop it, Sarah! You liken your husband's expressions of love to disgrace, to dishonor!' 

'Love? Rosemary, do not speak the word so lightly. Unless a woman willingly gives herself to a man, the act is nothing more or less than rape. Don't look so horrified! I do not love my husband any more than you did when he spoke to your father. Forgive me for wishing your father had given you up to him before he approached my parents. But only for a moment; I could not long fancy such evil for you. I hope someday you fall in love, Rosemary. I hope you fall so desperately in love with a man that you ache for his touch, that you crave it and pursue it and eagerly join your body to his.' 

'You are embarrassing me, Sarah! Please, don't be obscene!' 

'Love is not obscene, Mary. I cannot imagine anything more beautiful, and yet imagine is all I ever will do. My life is prematurely complete. You can yet hold out for more, and I pray that you will continue to believe in your dreams. I had better go; Mother will worry if I am absent too long, and the baby will be hungry by the time I return. If my husband visits Mother while I am away, he will accuse me of consorting with the devil.' 

'Wait! I heard someone; a man's voice. Oh, no, it's Judge Stoughton and another man! If they find us up here we'll be accused of conspiring evil and hanged without recourse. Come with me!' 

'Where are you going? Do you think we can fly?' 

'Of course not, but they'll see us if we go down the ladder through the barn; we have go out the back way into the pasture. Can you climb down the rope? When we reach the ground, go through the woods to the lane and hasten to your mother's. I'll run to the house and pretend I was there all along. Go, hurry!' 

'All right, it's your turn. Be careful, Rosemary! Hold tight!' 

'My hands are...sweaty. I can't hang on...' 

'Rosemary! Oh, dear Lord! Someone help, please, she fell, she's bleeding...' 

'What is all the screaming about? Sarah, what are you doing behind John Alden's barn?' 

'Judge Stoughton, please help! Rosemary fell from the loft, there's blood everywhere, she's barely breathing! Do something, please help her...' 

'She's as good as gone, Judge. Fell onto a pitchfork that must've been propped against the wagon. Tines have stabbed clean through her chest. Now how do you think that could have happened?' 

'I wonder, Mr. Putnam. What say you, Sarah? Why would Rosemary have jumped from the loft of her father's barn? And why are you here behind the barn watching her die, instead of minding your wifely duties at home?' 

'She didn't jump! She fell! Please do something...' 

'We are going to do something, Sarah. First we must establish the truth. How did you talk her into jumping, Sarah? What did you say that made her throw herself onto the pitchfork?' 

'I don't know what you're talking about! She's dying, for God's sake, please help her!' 

'Invoking the name of God won't help you now, Sarah. It's too late for that. Did you cast a spell on Rosemary--is that how you lured her to her death?' 

'Very well said, Mr. Putnam. You will take Sarah to jail and tell her husband the sad fact that his wife has whored her soul to the devil. See that she is examined for witch's marks. I will find John Alden and advise him of his daughter's death.' 

'I don't think she's dead yet, Judge. Will be soon, though. Shouldn't we at least get her off the pitchfork and move her to the house?' 

'Certainly not. The very sight of her will be damning testimony against Sarah, sufficient to convict her of witchcraft at her trial. I want the village elders to see Rosemary before she is moved. Go along now, Sarah, don't make things worse for yourself than they already are.' 

'No! Listen to me, please! I didn't hurt Mary; she's still alive, please help her!' 

'Come with me Sarah. Now!' 

'Let go of me! Rosemary, please wake up, tell them what happened, please don't die!' 

_'Sarah...'_

'Mary! Rosemary, please don't die. Please, help her! Let go of me!' 

_'Don't forget me...'_

'I am sorry for you, Rosemary. I'll send the preacher out to pray with you, if he can get here in time.' 

'You will do no such thing, Mr. Putnam. We've no record of her birth. John Alden found her as an infant by his garden gate and raised her as his own. Chances are this one was a witch, too, probably right from the start, and her family never knew it. The devil is not famous for taking care of his own.' 

'True, Judge. My apologies.' 

'I will bring Rev. Mather back personally for his assessment. Get Sarah to the jail now.' 

'Yes, Judge.' 

'Let go of me! You're hurting me!' 

'Goodbye, Rosemary Alden. May the fires of Hell recompense your soul for the wickedness it practiced here on earth.' 

_'Don't forget me...please don't forget me...'_

'Rosemary! For the love of Heaven, please help her, you can't just leave her here to die!' 

_'Remember...'_

§ § § § § 

**Present Day**

'What's the matter with you? You look like ten miles of bad road.' Joe passed a bottle across the bar without asking, or being asked. Methos lifted the bottle and stared at it. 

'It's beer. You drink it,' Joe explained. 

Methos' head remained lowered, but his eyes moved upward to meet Joe's as he sat the bottle back on the bar. 

Joe laughed. 'Man, now I know something is wrong!' 

'I ... haven't been sleeping well lately.' Methos hugged himself, tried to smile, and decided to have a drink after all. He swallowed hard and fell silent once more. 

Joe's customary ambivalence toward his old acquaintance settled uncomfortably into sincere concern. He attempted once more to draw Methos into their usual sparring banter. 

'Why? Are you sick?' he demanded, grinning foolishly at the private joke. 

Methos tried to respond in like manner but found his motivation lacking. Instead, he told the truth. 'I've been having bad dreams.' 

Joe felt a fatherly pang at the plaint of an innocent child uttered by a man who had outlived millennia. His guard remained safely in place, however. His relationship with Methos hinged on a respect for distance. 

'You mean like ... nightmares? Monsters and such?' 

Methos finished his beer and eased the bottle gently, without a sound, onto the bar. 'Memories,' he murmured. 'People that really were--or are--and things that really happened, only not exactly the way they really happened. At least ... not the way I remember them happening.' 

'How are they different?' 

'In reality, I win. In these dreams ... I lose.' 

'What happens when you lose?' 

Methos snorted impatiently. 'People get hurt, Joe; people die and they all blame me, harass me relentlessly, as though I am responsible for their suffering, as though I caused it or could have stopped it from happening.' 

Joe carefully voided his face of expression. He had asked, and now he was sorry. 

'In reality, I fight and I live. In these dreams, I am rendered helpless and convicted over and over, and I am put to death, over and over...' 

Methos wiped perspiration from his forehead with a napkin. Joe opened another bottle and shoved it at his friend. Against better judgment, he delved a little deeper. 

'Do you know why you are suddenly having these dreams? Can you think of anything that might have triggered them?' 

Methos did not appear to have heard the question. His eyes were focused beyond Joe's right elbow. 

'Where did you get that?' 

Joe turned and picked up a community theater flyer from the counter behind him. 'You mean this? A young lady came in a little while ago and asked if I would post it in my window. I told her I wouldn't put it there, but I'd hang it on the bulletin board in the hallway. Folks will see it on their way to the john. Hey, where are you going?' 

'I have things to do,' Methos shrugged into his jacket and headed for the door. 

'Aren't you forgetting something?' Joe held up the freshly opened bottle with his right hand, and extended the flat open palm of his left. 

'Put it on my tab,' Methos muttered, and was gone. 

Joe frowned at the untouched bottle, shrugged, and drank half of it down. 'Thanks, Pal,' he tossed back. He'd be a rich man someday, when Methos paid his bill. 

§ § § § § 

**August 1692, Salem**

Her life poured forth to stain the earth with her memory; she witnessed with horror the hot dark blood that surged rhythmically from the holes in her chest and saturated her clothing before pooling in the straw around her upper body. The Unknown engulfed her, yawning and black, and asphyxiated her will to live. She cried out, but there was no one to hear; they had abandoned her to die alone. 

Spirits wafted amidst the uncertainty, cool lips touching her cheek before fleeing the inexorable pull of the current that drew her ever downward, away from all that she knew. Her mother extended hands she could not grasp, offers of love that passed her by. She withdrew from her father's touch, firm in discipline and painful in rebuke; from a brother's laughter and fisted blows, playful one moment and cruel the next. Simple hopes and impossible dreams forsook the deception of a life too short to achieve their fruition. Scant knowledge, inexperienced wisdom and limited understanding fell awkwardly silent until at last the Void was complete. 

Chaos came in that final moment as soul and body were torn asunder. She waited for the next reality, having been taught throughout her life that the soul would enter its final resting place after death. She felt the division of the physical and spiritual, yet the spirit lingered dreadfully near. Her final thoughts were tormented with the horror that this wasn't how it was supposed to be. 

There must have been a period of rest, of peace; later she could not remember, nor would she ever remember when Death stole precious moments of her life. It all came together in one horrifying rush as soul and body reunited, her parts colliding amidst the restoration, the breath of Life filling her lungs and causing her to gasp in terror, muscles straining against the momentary agony, voice crying out in protest against this aberration of reality. 

Fingers touched her lips gently, urging silence. Dread of the unknown world to which she had awakened forced her to comply. She felt herself lifted in strong arms, carried effortlessly for a distance and hoisted upward as her...Captor? Redeemer? mounted a horse, cradled her across his lap and urged the animal forward, carrying them both away. 

Somehow she found security in the warmth of hands that held onto her without hurting her. 

'I am Hans Kershner,' he told her. 'Be still, now. No one is going to hurt you anymore.' 

She relaxed against the broad chest and luxuriated in the heat that suffused her body, breathed in the stranger's forest scent, and fell into a troubled sleep without ever having opened her eyes to assess a situation so far beyond her control. 

§ § § § § 

They were well away from Salem when Rosemary awoke, but even then, the slow rocking pace of the horse joined with the dry chatter of cicadas and rhythmic squeak of saddle to try to lull her back to sleep again. 

A trickle of sweat ran down her ribs ... _or is it blood?_ she wondered, and the memory of the fall from the barn loft startled her completely awake. She twisted in the saddle, frightened, and looked at the man who had one hand on the reins and the other around her waist. 

In response to her stammered and unfinished questions, he answered, 'Perhaps I should introduce myself again. Hans Kershner. And you are?' 

'Rosemary Alden.' It was several minutes before she could speak, time she spent looking at the bloody rents in her dress, the disbelief on her face changing to horror, then back to disbelief, and finally to a blank stare. 

'Where are we going?' she asked, lacing her fingers through the horse's mane, sitting up straight to put as proper a distance as she could between herself and Hans. 

He let his hand drop away from her waist. 'Boston.' 

'Most people take a boat,' Rosemary volunteered. 

'Doesn't everyone in Salem know you?' he asked. In response to her nodding head, he continued, 'So it would be foolish of us to spend a day on the docks trying to procure passage to Boston. We go by post road.' 

Rosemary fidgeted on the horse. She was perspiring heavily in the humid late afternoon air, and the dried and flaking blood that covered her stank. 

They rode without speaking as the sun dipped lower and lower, a dull red-orange against a hazy gray sky. They stopped once to water the horse at a stream, and Hans had to coax Rosemary from the saddle to get a drink herself. He took a kerchief from his pocket, wet it in the stream, and scrubbed the dried blood from her arm. He dipped the kerchief in the water again, wrung it nearly dry, and handed it back to her with a nod to her neck and collarbone. She stared uncomprehending at him, and he took back his kerchief and gently wiped her neck clean. He boosted her back into the saddle, swung up behind her, and turned the horse back to the post road. 

Cicadas gave way to crickets, and the moon rose full and yellow on their left. They were lucky enough to find an ordinary, and Hans paid an extra shilling to the goodwife to have her son stable the horse while he ate with Rosemary. The family looked at Rosemary strangely, wrapped as she was in Hans' cloak despite the hot weather, but they said nothing. She pulled the cloak more tightly around her, her right hand snaking outside the heavy fabric to reach her food. 

She ate mechanically, the food tasteless in her mouth, the prospect of sleep disquieting. She nudged Hans' cloak higher against her neck to keep the family from seeing her bloodstained dress, the dress she had died in. 

_I died_ , she thought with a shudder, _and then, unnatural, cursed thing that I am, came back from death_. The Reverend was right. Evil possessed men's--and women's, especially women's--hearts and souls without their even knowing. How else could she explain what had happened to her this day, her rising from death, her willingness to cast aside all she knew and climb onto a horse with the silent stranger? 

She finished her meal under the wary stares of the family and retreated to a pallet in the corner next to Hans. 

'Goodnight, Goodman Kershner, Goody Kershner,' their host said, blowing out the tallow dip. 

'Goodnight,' Hans replied. 

Rosemary pressed against the wooden wall, cheeks burning with shame that she should be sleeping with a man she wasn't married to. She waited until she could hear low, even breathing and snores from the family before asking the question she needed to know the answer to. Summoning all her courage, with heart pounding wildly, she inched across to Hans in the dark, grazed his shoulder with her hand, leaned closer and closer to him until she felt his hair against her cheek, and whispered into his ear, 'Are you the Devil?' 

§ § § § § 

**Present Day**

If anyone else had lurched out of sleep gasping for air and feeling a vise-like pressure on his chest, Methos would have immediately called it a coronary, and then called 911. 

Since it was his own heart pounding, his own lungs laboring, though, he knew it was just another bad dream. The memory of it was vivid: a heavy leather tug from a draft horse's harness looped around his chest, an ax handle inserted under it, and twisted. 

First breathing became difficult, then very labored, then impossible. When the ribs under the constricting band had broken, the jagged ends had punctured his lungs, and he'd died shaking his head in denial, a bloody froth on his lips. 

It was so efficient, everything so handy, so much easier than gathering stones to press the devils out of a man. The man died, an unfortunate by-product of the devils' eviction, and probably, Methos thought sourly, migrated into the minds of the men who had done it, to keep company with their stony hearts. 

He poked a finger up under his jaw, felt his pulse slowing and smoothing, sluiced cold water over his face, then regarded himself in a mirror. It was early, yet, he'd let himself fall asleep before dusk of the summer evening, and it wasn't even midnight yet. Joe's would still be open. But first, a shower. He looked like Death. 

True to Joe's word, the flyer hung in the hallway. Methos jerked it off its pins, crumpled it in his fist, and wound up smoothing it out on the bar after his second lager. Each of the eleven letters of the play's title wore a crown of flame, like a candle. The shadow they cast worked itself into a stick figure hanged man, complete with gallows, as if children had been playing a word game. 

_THE CRUCIBLE A Play by Arthur Miller_ , would be the fall production of the Seacouver Players. Idly, Methos doodled over the hanged man, and by the time Joe stopped long enough to look at what he was doing, it looked remarkably like a goat, horns, cloven hoofs, beard, and all. 

He was inking the strange horizontal pupils in the goat's eyes when he noticed Joe staring at the altered drawing. 

'Scapegoats for the Goat,' Methos said, with a crooked grin. 'That's what we were.' 

'I thought they burned hundreds of them at the stake.' 

'No. All hanged. Nineteen. Plus one man who was pressed with stones. That was the official count, but if they couldn't find the body, later, I guess it wasn't included. They didn't count me. Probably some others. Funny, because we were the ones they could have really made a case about.' 

Amanda came into the bar waltzing, practically floating, with Duncan in her wake. 'I got it! I got it! The part I wanted, in a won-n-nderful play! I'm going to be Elizabeth Proctor in _The Crucible_!' 

She gave them not a grand court curtsey, but a tight little bob of a gesture, a Puritan woman's careful greeting. The face she lifted was still, almost plain, a proper goodwife's face. Duncan watched her with amused pride, until he shifted his glance to take in Methos. 

It couldn't be. Stunned, he watched tears well up in the other man's eyes, saw him shake his head, very slowly, and walk out of Joe's, never even wiping his face. 

**August 1692**

She awoke from deep slumber to a strange headache that thrummed like a bee trapped behind her eyes. The memory of Hans' warm laughter was little consolation when paired with the enigmatic expression that accompanied his reassurance that, no, he most certainly was not the devil, though there were periods throughout his history in which those acquainted with him would have contended that he most certainly was. As a conversation in the night might dampen the generosity of their host, he would provide an explanation on the morrow of the perils that had befallen her today. 

'Sleep now,' he said, and though she felt incapable of even closing her eyes, she retreated to the wall and curled up with her back to Hans. She lay quiet and still, stiffly maintaining the small distance between them lest she accidentally touch him or, Lord forbid, he roll over against her. 

The sight of Sarah suspended by her neck from an oak branch ripped a scream from Rosemary's throat that emerged as a whimper, and she turned to flee the nightmare only to find her arms held fast by large, warm hands from which she could not escape. 

'It was a dream,' Hans told her, and released her gradually, as if he might have to tighten his grip once more to prevent her flight. She nodded, finally, and he let go of her arms. She rubbed the pulse between her eyes and Hans inexplicably smiled. 

'These are for you.' He placed a small bundle on the floor beside her. Looking at him, then, Rosemary realized Hans had been up and about for quite some time. 

'There is a spring out back, just beyond the trees. When you are finished, we will go.' 

Rosemary averted her gaze from his face to the bundle. Her eyes widened as she pulled it apart to find a gown, petticoat and cap. Impossible; clothing was hard to come by and only wealthy families owned several changes of dress. A little round soap rolled out of the bundle into Rosemary's lap. She snuggled the precious things to her chest and looked to Hans for answers to questions she did not know how to ask. 

Hans offered a hand. Rosemary placed hers in his, almost fearfully, and stood. 

'Goody Kershner!' The trencher fell from the goodwife's hands, its contents spilling across the floor as she gasped in horror. 

Rosemary paled. She had neglected to wrap herself in Hans' cloak, and she was painfully aware of her appearance without it. 

Hans heaved a deep sigh. 'You might want to hurry,' he suggested, and led Rosemary out the door. He escorted her along a short path past the necessary to a stand of scrubby trees that lined the bank of a shallow creek. A low pile of rocks dammed a small pool, and a trough sat at one end for goods the family wished to keep cool. The sight of it all made Rosemary homesick. 

Hans cleared his throat and disappeared the way he had come. Rosemary disrobed, taking inventory of her garments as she laid them aside. The gown was ruined by horrible tears, front and back. Her petticoat was bloodied, though she might be able to cleanse the material, dye it, and use it again. She stood for a moment with her feet in the cold water, reluctant to take off her shift. She touched the holes in the material, put her fingers through them, verging on panic as her fingers encountered the unbroken skin of her breasts where gaping wounds should have been. The shift was hard and stuck to her body. She winced as she peeled the material away from her skin and pulled the filthy thing off over her head. 

She suddenly felt the urgent need to wash herself, as if scrubbing away the blood would cleanse her mind of the memories that came with it. The harsh soap scoured her skin a viciously dark pink, and only when she realized it was hurting did she stop. Rosemary pulled the clean shift over her head, hugging the loose material gratefully close. Petticoat and gown were loose and a little too long; she could hem them up, if she had a needle and thread. Rosemary manipulated her hair into a loose braid. She would put on her cap as soon as her hair was dry. 

She would feel immensely better if that monotonous, droning headache would go away. 

Less than a cart's width separated the creek bank from the scrubby trees, and Rosemary was appalled to find Hans sitting nonchalantly on a rock, his back against a tree, waiting for her. She blushed hotly at the thought that he might have actually seen her... 

'There you are.' He stood and offered his arm. 'My lady,' he said with a courtly bow, and for the first time Rosemary wondered where Hans had come from and how he had found her and why he had taken her away. She studied his profile as they returned to the house. He must be twice her age, but lacked the burden of years that weighed down her parents and other older people she knew. And if he was, Rosemary supposed forty-eight wasn't so old. Just last week a sixteen-year-old friend had married a fifty-year-old widower who needed a wife to give him more children even as she took over the care and responsibility of the brood his first wife had left behind. 

She ventured another look. Physically, Hans was a big, beautiful man with thick black hair and grey eyes that tempted her with their warmth and sincerity even as she was repelled by the strength and certainty of the man within. Hans frightened her, but everything about life frightened her. He had promised to explain some things, and that frightened her, too. Only a lack of options would hold Rosemary still to listen to the things she needed to know. 

The horse was saddled and waiting by the road. The boy passed the reins to Hans in exchange for a coin, darted a suspicious glance at Rosemary, and fled to the house. Hans lifted Rosemary to the saddle and swung up behind her. Rosemary laid the bundle of her ruined clothing against the horse's neck. She didn't want to keep the things, but the morning had not offered a logical place for their disposal. 

They rode silently through the morning. Over and again Rosemary worked up the nerve to ask, only to have the desperate need for an explanation overridden by terror of what the answers might be. If she wasn't an evil spirit resurrected in the form of a woman, then what was she? And if Hans wasn't the Devil, why had he come to her aid and taken responsibility for her? 

Just before noon Hans stopped to rest and water the horse, and offered Rosemary a piece of bread and an apple. Chewing the stale crust, staring at the barely-ripe fruit in her hand, Rosemary worked up the nerve once more to ask, and then didn't have to. Hans had decided to talk. 

All Rosemary could do was sit on the grass by the pond and listen. 

§ § § § § 

Her eyes grew wider and wider and her mouth closed to a small circle as Hans carefully outlined Immortality--swords and beheadings, Quickenings and unbreakable rules, boundless power and holy ground. 

Her skin was pale, and beads of perspiration broke out on her upper lip as she quoted, 'And He said, Draw not nigh hither, Moses: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.' 

Hans lifted Rosemary by her trembling elbows and moved her into the shade of a maple tree. He went to his saddlebag and withdrew a flask of cider, offering her a drink. 

'I'll live forever?' she ventured, her voice uncertain. 

His voice was firm and gentle. 'Only one will live forever, and that one must learn to master this.' He slid his broadsword a hand's breadth from its sheath. 

She hesitated, then reached to touch the blade. 

Hans put his hand on hers, stopping her. 'Never touch the blade, Rosemary.' 

She folded her hands in her lap and waited. 

'Perhaps we'll save the sword for another day,' Hans told her. 

Rosemary's hand went to her breast, probing through the dark fabric of her dress. 'Was it the pitchfork that made me Immortal?' 

'In a way.' 

'Did a pitchfork kill you, too?' 

Hans smiled when he answered, 'We are reborn as Immortals after a violent death. The pitchfork killed you, but a musket ball or sword would have done as well.' 

Her eyes followed him as he went to his horse and busied himself with checking the saddle and bridle. She wanted to ask something she was afraid was too intimate; uneasy, she hesitated and swallowed before directing the question at Hans' back: 'How, then, did you die?' 

He ran his hands down each of the horse's legs in turn, lifting the hooves to inspect them. 'Serving my king.' 

The noon heat left her feeling lightheaded. 'Like the twelve strong men of King David?' 

Hans laughed and walked into the shade to sit with Rosemary. 'I'm not quite that old, although it is said that some of our kind are.' 

'How old are you?' 

The smile never left his lips, but his voice was low and serious. 'I was born in the year of our Lord 937.' 

Rosemary began counting on her fingers, stopped, and began counting twice more. 

'I am 754 years old.' 

Her jaw dropped. Hans cupped her chin in his hand for a moment and gently lifted it to close her mouth. 

Rosemary stood and began to brush the breadcrumbs from her dress. 'I want to go back to Salem,' she said. 'I need to help Sarah.' 

'Impossible.' 

She found the flask and stoppered it, packed it in the saddlebag. 

'The Reverend Mather thinks she was talking about witchcraft with me in the loft.' 

Hans' voice was mild. 'Was she?' 

'No! She was talking about her dissatisfaction with her ... ' Rosemary stammered and blushed, ' ... wifely duties.' 

Hans stood and refastened the saddlebag. 'And did you counsel her wisely about her ... duties?' 

Rosemary stared at the ground. 'I cannot, sir; I am not married.' 

'How old are you?' 

'Twenty-four.' 

It was Hans' turn to be surprised. 'And you're not married?' 

Rosemary looked him in the eye for the first time since they met. 'I want to help Sarah. If I'm Immortal, then they can't hurt me anymore.' 

Hans put his foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse. 'They can hurt you, Rosemary, and they can kill you. How many ways would you like them to kill you before someone thinks to try cutting off your head?' 

He took his foot from the stirrup and indicated it with a nod of his head. Rosemary slipped her foot there and raised herself to sit behind Hans. 

'You'll be there to protect me, Mister Kershner.' 

He turned in the saddle to look at her. 'The essence of protecting someone lies not in drawing your sword but rather in avoiding situations where it is necessary to fight. Once the blade is drawn, you have already failed.' 

'Sarah needs help, and if you don't take me, I'll go alone.' 

'Mistress Alden, it no longer surprises me that you have reached the age of twenty-four without marrying. Few men would want such a headstrong woman.' 

He took the reins in his hands before adding, 'Few mortal men.' 

§ § § § § 

Her eyes grew wider and wider and her mouth closed to a small circle as Hans carefully outlined Immortality--swords and beheadings, Quickenings and unbreakable rules, boundless power and holy ground. 

Her skin was pale, and beads of perspiration broke out on her upper lip as she quoted, 'And He said, Draw not nigh hither, Moses: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.' 

Hans lifted Rosemary by her trembling elbows and moved her into the shade of a maple tree. He went to his saddlebag and withdrew a flask of cider, offering her a drink. 

'I'll live forever?' she ventured, her voice uncertain. 

His voice was firm and gentle. 'Only one will live forever, and that one must learn to master this.' He slid his broadsword a hand's breadth from its sheath. 

She hesitated, then reached to touch the blade. 

Hans put his hand on hers, stopping her. 'Never touch the blade, Rosemary.' 

She folded her hands in her lap and waited. 

'Perhaps we'll save the sword for another day,' Hans told her. 

Rosemary's hand went to her breast, probing through the dark fabric of her dress. 'Was it the pitchfork that made me Immortal?' 

'In a way.' 

'Did a pitchfork kill you, too?' 

Hans smiled when he answered, 'We are reborn as Immortals after a violent death. The pitchfork killed you, but a musket ball or sword would have done as well.' 

Her eyes followed him as he went to his horse and busied himself with checking the saddle and bridle. She wanted to ask something she was afraid was too intimate; uneasy, she hesitated and swallowed before directing the question at Hans' back: 'How, then, did you die?' 

He ran his hands down each of the horse's legs in turn, lifting the hooves to inspect them. 'Serving my king.' 

The noon heat left her feeling lightheaded. 'Like the twelve strong men of King David?' 

Hans laughed and walked into the shade to sit with Rosemary. 'I'm not quite that old, although it is said that some of our kind are.' 

'How old are you?' 

The smile never left his lips, but his voice was low and serious. 'I was born in the year of our Lord 937.' 

Rosemary began counting on her fingers, stopped, and began counting twice more. 

'I am 754 years old.' 

Her jaw dropped. Hans cupped her chin in his hand for a moment and gently lifted it to close her mouth. 

Rosemary stood and began to brush the breadcrumbs from her dress. 'I want to go back to Salem,' she said. 'I need to help Sarah.' 

'Impossible.' 

She found the flask and stoppered it, packed it in the saddlebag. 

'The Reverend Mather thinks she was talking about witchcraft with me in the loft.' 

Hans' voice was mild. 'Was she?' 

'No! She was talking about her dissatisfaction with her ... ' Rosemary stammered and blushed, ' ... wifely duties.' 

Hans stood and refastened the saddlebag. 'And did you counsel her wisely about her ... duties?' 

Rosemary stared at the ground. 'I cannot, sir; I am not married.' 

'How old are you?' 

'Twenty-four.' 

It was Hans' turn to be surprised. 'And you're not married?' 

Rosemary looked him in the eye for the first time since they met. 'I want to help Sarah. If I'm Immortal, then they can't hurt me anymore.' 

Hans put his foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse. 'They can hurt you, Rosemary, and they can kill you. How many ways would you like them to kill you before someone thinks to try cutting off your head?' 

He took his foot from the stirrup and indicated it with a nod of his head. Rosemary slipped her foot there and raised herself to sit behind Hans. 

'You'll be there to protect me, Mister Kershner.' 

He turned in the saddle to look at her. 'The essence of protecting someone lies not in drawing your sword but rather in avoiding situations where it is necessary to fight. Once the blade is drawn, you have already failed.' 

'Sarah needs help, and if you don't take me, I'll go alone.' 

'Mistress Alden, it no longer surprises me that you have reached the age of twenty-four without marrying. Few men would want such a headstrong woman.' 

He took the reins in his hands before adding, 'Few mortal men.' 

§ § § § § 

**August 1692**

Her emotions scaled the extremes of the spectrum. She soared euphorically at the revelations concerning the unique gift that was her life. Her thoughts abruptly shattered against jagged cliffs of terror and shame at the vast departure from lifelong teachings that left her hopelessly adrift in doubt. Moments later defeat would again transmute to triumph, lifting her above her troubles only to brutally dash her spirits once more. 

What if Hans were lying? 

His story was the sort to which any mortal, once exposed to the cold, barren chasm of Death, would grasp and cling in a desperate plea for truth. When held up to the light of all she had ever believed, it appeared to be nothing more than the wiles of the Author of Confusion, drawing her away from the faith of her fathers and into an unknown world filled with modern perceptions of age-old events. Rosemary stiffened in the saddle and risked a frown at the back of Hans' neck. She would admit to naïveté, but not to stupidity, and she wanted to tell him so. 

But what if Hans were telling the absolute truth? 

_I died._ She shuddered despite the unrelenting heat of a brilliant mid-afternoon sun. _I died, and now I live._ She could dispute the fantasy Hans had shared, but she could not contest her own intimate experience with death. There were other arguments in his favor; she had not told Hans about the annoying thrum of a headache, yet he had explained the sensation as though he knew she felt it. It meant another Immortal was near; because of her proximity to Hans, she would just have to get used to it. 

And if Immortals existed, and if she and Hans were among them, that still did not explain exactly what an Immortal was. Devil's spawn or angelic host? Curse or blessing? Such tortured thoughts exhausted her emotions until she thought perhaps the most obvious explanation of all was that she had simply lost her mind. 

Rosemary's attention jarred back to reality when Hans guided his horse off the road and onto a narrow path that wound through the wood. 

'Where are you taking me?' she demanded. 'I told you I wanted to go back to Salem. They'll hang Sarah if I'm not there to stop them!' Her voice was ragged with unshed tears. 

'Word will have passed throughout the village in which we spent last night of how you walked around wearing all your blood on the outside of your body. Should they stop us in order to hang us there, it would us take considerably longer to return to Salem and we might then indeed be too late to assist your friend.' 

Rosemary lowered her head, ashamed of her outburst. 'I'm sorry.' 

Hans was silent for a few moments. When he spoke, it was to offer both comfort and wisdom. 'I know something of what you are going through. Despite the considerable years since my first death, my memory is clear of the day I learned what I would forever be. It seems a wretched plight at first, but you'll get used to it. After a period of adjustment you will accept what you have become and learn to live again.' Then, as if he had read her thoughts, 'It is up to each of us to decide whether our life is to be a blessed gift or a bitter curse. That is true regardless of one's mortality.' 

Forgetting for a moment that she was a proper woman and not a little girl, Rosemary leaned forward and laid her head against Hans' back. She was weary of the internal arguments that had led her so far afield and left her not knowing what to believe. Drained of every feeling but fear, she wiped away her tears and leaned her burdens on the man who appeared, for reasons she still did not understand, willing to carry them. 'Tell me more,' she requested, 'about Immortality; tell me...' She hesitated, writhing in discomfort of the intimacy the question somehow inferred. 'Tell me why you stopped and saved me when everyone else abandoned me and let me die alone.' 

Hans felt the pressure of her body and the weight of her emotion and relaxed his shoulders to more gently accommodate both. 'When the first death results in Immortality, the new Immortal must have a teacher, an instructor to interpret the legacy of our race. I will tell you now that you should expect to ask many questions for which I will not have answers; the new ones always do. As you grow and learn, you will come to understand that some things have to be taken on faith.' 

He paused at a fork in the path, made a choice, and urged the horse onward. 'The day before your death, I encountered your family in the village. I knew one of you would one day be Immortal, but I wasn't certain which one. I thought perhaps it was to be one of the young men with you.' 

'They are my brothers,' Rosemary said. 'I have four brothers.' 

'And you were adopted.' 

Rosemary sat up. 'How did you know that?' 

'Because Immortals aren't born. They are found.' 

'But...what of our fathers and mothers?' 

'Those who raise us to adulthood are our fathers and mothers. There are theories as to the origins of the Immortal race, but I've heard none that offered proof beyond the shadow of any doubt.' 

Rosemary thought about that, but couldn't make any better sense of this new information than she had of anything else Hans had shared. 'You saw us in the village,' she said. 'How did you know I would be Immortal?' 

Hans shrugged. 'The same way you know that I am, only the sensation isn't as strong; it's different when emanated from a pre-Immortal. Someday you'll encounter one, and you'll see what I mean. I lingered in Salem overnight, trying to decide whether I should stay for a while and take up the training of the new student when the time was fulfilled, or if I should continue on and trust that someone else would be near to perform the duty when that moment came to pass. I encountered your brothers again the following morning and realized that you were the one who would be Immortal. I decided I would continue on my way and leave your training to another. The path I chose out of Salem led past your father's farm. I had achieved the forest when I heard your friend scream as you fell from the loft. I waited until the others had gone, and you know the rest.' 

Rosemary caught herself frowning again. It was an expression highly discouraged and rarely used, and she silently reprimanded herself for doing so twice in so short a time. 'Why did you decide to leave my training to another?' She grasped Hans by his waist as the horse descended a shallow gully, splashed through a trickle that hardly passed for a stream, and scrambled up the opposite bank. 

'I thought you would probably feel more comfortable under the tutelage of a woman.' Hans stopped the horse at the edge of the wood and took his time scanning across the open field before them. 'Perhaps, indeed, you would. You don't appear to be at ease with me. After our adventure in Salem, if you wish, I will introduce you to a lady Immortal who could take over your training.' 

'No! I mean, ah...' Rosemary gulped and felt suddenly very hot. What exactly did she mean? 'I mean, I've only just met you, and I didn't realize there were so many others, and I don't think I want to meet another one until I've learned more about what it all means.' 

'What it all means?' 

'Immortality.' 

'It means you are endowed with the ability to live forever, Rosemary. That is the exciting part. It means that in order to survive, you must learn to fight to the death of your opponent. You will doubtless find that disturbing; I would imagine a woman of your upbringing might find it absolutely unacceptable. However, you must take up the pleasures and the burdens of your new life and immerse yourself in the education at hand.' 

'Why? What if I don't want to fight? What if someone challenges me and I just refuse to fight with him? What then?' 

Hans' voice was bitter as he guided the horse across the field. 'Then you die.' 

Rosemary again laid her head against Hans' back and tried to think what she should do. She was loath to consider herself a helpless victim of circumstances, yet that is exactly what she perceived herself to be. At the moment, she could see only one way out of that suffocating corner. 

Hans had given his word that he would help her save Sarah from the gallows. Rosemary was not so foolish as to believe either of them would be safe in Salem after that. She ruthlessly pushed aside the thought of never seeing her family again, determined not to dwell on the thought that her parents and brothers were not relatives at all. Hans had intended to take Rosemary to Boston; Sarah wrote to friends in Boston. If they could get Sarah safely to her friends, Rosemary could then accompany Hans until she had learned the things she needed to know in order to survive. She swallowed over the lump in her throat that accompanied the brief thought of fighting someone with a sword in her hand, of hurting that person, of being forced into the choice of killing or being killed... 

Subconsciously she was aware that, somewhere along the line, she had accepted Hans' story as truth. Very few assertions in her life had been accompanied by proof. This time, she was her own testimony. While she was at it, she acknowledged that though she remained vaguely suspicious of Hans' words, she felt completely secure and safe with him. Rosemary did not want Hans to leave her. She wondered why her stomach should knot so uncomfortably at the mere thought. 

Rosemary realized she still had her arms around Hans' waist. Blushing profusely, she withdrew them and straightened herself so as to put a proper distance between her chest and his back. 

'Are you all right?' he asked. 'Do you need to stop and rest?' 

'No,' she said, 'thank you. The sooner we reach Salem, the better.' 

Hans gave a curt nod. 'As you wish.' 

Rosemary was hurt at the thought that she might have offended him, but she wasn't experienced enough in the art of human relationships to know if, or how, or what to do in either case to set things right. 

One thing at a time, she decided. Go to Salem, help Sarah, and then...and then I'll worry about what is next to come. 

Her one small comfort was the knowledge that, whatever was to come, Hans would be there to introduce her to it, teach her how to deal with it or, if necessary, protect her from it. 

At first glance, Salem's jail was not much different from the poorer houses in town--a step down to the dirt floor, unfinished wooden walls that snagged clothing and skin. Closer inspection revealed the lack of windows and the presence of chains and manacles bolted to the walls. 

The very hour that Rosemary had fallen from the loft, the authorities had locked Sarah up to await interrogation at the Court of Oyer and Terminer; news of the disappearance of her corpse had sped through town as fast as lightning. By nightfall, two members of the court appeared in the jail to examine Sarah for witches teats and other devil's marks. Tears of humiliation ran down her face as the officials silently carried out their task. Milk dripped from her breasts, and her pleas to see her infant went unanswered. 

Sarah watched the flies hover around the plate where last night's supper had been, the third supper since her imprisonment began; they circled, landed and circled again to a new spot. Sarah shifted on the dirt floor and sighed, brushed the flies away from her face. The August heat made the jail an oven, and no breeze stirred the humid air through the few fine chinks in the walls. 

When the heavy door to the jail was pulled open, Sarah gulped at the inrush of air, relieved. Her relief turned to fear as two men hauled her to her feet and dragged her into the blinding sunlight. 

'Where are we going?' she asked. 

Neither man looked at her. The taller of the two spoke to the shorter. 'Don't listen to her, Samuel, lest you end up run through with a pitchfork, too.' 

The street was lined with townspeople who had braved the noontime sun and heat to watch Sarah pass. Squinting, she searched the crowd. Every face turned from her gaze. She stumbled on the court stairs, striking her shin as she fell. The two men pulled her to her feet and propelled her inside and to the bench where a solitary man sat. 

'Mr. Sewell, if you please, begin recording the proceedings,' he said, indicating the clerk at the other side of the room. 

The clerk nodded and dipped a quill into ink, then moved the top sheet of paper to a precise angle. 

The judge spoke in a monotone. 'In the year of our Lord 1692, August the seventeenth, the fourth year of the reign of our sovereign monarchs.' 

He paused until the scratching of the clerk's pen on paper had ceased. 

'Goody Miller,' the judge said. 'How is it that Satan appears to you?' 

'Judge Hathorne, he does not,' Sarah said. 

'Which of his familiars appears to you?' 

She mopped perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. 'It's very hot. May I have a drink?' 

The scratch of quill on paper was her only answer. 

'Which of his familiars appears to you?' 

'None, sir.' 

'Why did you murder Rosemary Alden?' 

'With God as my witness, I did not harm her! She was my friend.' 

'Three nights ago, Goodman Clay says that he looked across the town and saw a large wolf with eyes the color of yours. This wolf dragged the body of Rosemary Alden to the river and disappeared into the mist.' 

Sarah gripped the railing next to her until her knuckles were white. 

'What say you, Goody Miller?' 

'Goodman Clay cannot see well enough to count the number of cows in his own field. How could he see the color of a wolf's eyes from across town?' 

Judge Hathorne pressed his lips together. 'I would counsel you to not to question the court.' He sorted through some papers before speaking again. 'Goody White says that you gave to her herbs with which to make a tea. Since drinking them, the babe in her womb has quickened and keeps her awake at night, moving with what she describes as a dance of demons.' 

Sarah swallowed but did not speak. 

'How came you upon these herbs?' 

'From the physician who visited Salem January past,' Sarah said. 'He was very kind. He told me they would be soothing in my confinement and a tonic for the babe.' Her eyes filled with tears. 'Is my baby well?' 

Judge Hathorne looked her in the eyes. 'How can you be sure that he was a physician and not a familiar of Satan's? Tell me, Goody Miller, how often you consorted with him and what he offered you for your soul.' 

'He offered me only herbs and reassuring words. I was frightened of my condition.' 

'A woman of your station does not seek the advice of a physician,' Judge Hathorne stated, smoothing the front of his dark shirt. 'She rather seeks the counsel of a midwife. Confess to me, goodwife, that he tempted you and instructed you in the ways of witchcraft. The Lord is merciful and just to those who come to Him with a contrite heart.' 

Sarah stood straight and pulled her shoulders back. 'I am innocent.' 

'In light of your recent confinement, I am inclined to treat you with kindness and give you time to reconsider your sins.' He gestured to the guards. 'Take her back to jail.' 

§ § § § § 

'So many Sarahs,' Kershner said, almost a sigh of regret. 

Rosemary had recited the tale of accusations, trials, and executions that had been the lot of Salem all summer long. She had given up trying to maintain a proper distance between them and just let herself settle against his broad back as the horse walked on. With one ear, she heard the words he spoke, and with the other, laid against the cloth of his shirt, she heard the rumble of his breathing, the slow thud of his heart. 

'Can you write, Rosemary?' 

'I can make my sign.' 

'That will do.' 

§ § § § § 

It was afternoon of the next day when they came up even with the coach, he spoke to the outrider courteously, and they stayed with it into Salem village. At the ordinary, he pulled up the horse, swung his leg over its neck, and slid to the ground, reaching up to help her off. The passengers were also dismounting from the coach, and William Stoughton stared at her. 

In three quick strides, he was in front of her, reaching out to touch her face. His hand ran into Hans Kershner's. 'Excuse me, sir, I think you are too free with my wife.' 

'Your wife? This woman is Rosemary Alden, of this village, and she should be dead.' 

'I have heard strange things of Salem, but I had no idea they extended to the lieutenant governor of a colony declaring who ought to be dead.' 

'I tell you, I saw this woman dying!' 

'And no doubt you rendered assistance to her, sir. For which, I am duly grateful. What do I owe you for your timely services?' Kershner made as if to pull a purse from his saddlebags. 

'I will see you in court,' Stoughton retorted. 

'In court? Sir, I can think of no reason why we should meet there.' 

'So that Rosemary Alden may offer testimony in the case of Sarah Miller, who killed ... attempted to kill her.' Stoughton was as tall as Kershner, and as heavy, but his presence was a belly that preceded him, and not the rocklike stature of the other man. He was also feeling a certain doubt about his own position regarding the woman who clearly was Rosemary Alden. He turned on his heel and went into the inn. 

At the sight of Stoughton's grasping hand, Rosemary had shrunk back, coming up against the haunches of the horse. She had been astounded that Hans had taken the tack with the judge that he had. She could only see his face in profile, but there was half a smile on his lips, as if he enjoyed a quick joust before dinner. 

To stay at an inn in her own hometown struck Rosemary as an extravagance. There it was, though, and clearly her position was improved by her marriage, even if to a stranger, although he seemed to be known at the inn. He paid for their meals and the room in coin, even purchasing a candle instead of a rush light. 

The candle provided enough light for him to write out in a fair hand a marriage contract with a barely legible clerk's signature, his own, and an X over her name. 

'You were in the loft,' he began, with a conspirator's smile, 'to tell your friend Sarah of your elopement and marriage. You swore her to secrecy, because you didn't know when I would be able to return for you. It's a simple story. Don't waver from it. The judges will also question me, and I will answer. You are Goody Kershner. I am Hans Kershner, a ships' chandler, whom you met when I came to Salem a year ago to offer my services to various captains. All this can be verified. I have been back at various times, and that will also turn out to be known.' 

'But I hadn't seen you before ... ' 

'That cannot be proven, one way or another. Stick to what can be shown to be true. The simplest lie is the best one.' 

'But to give my oath, and then lie. I cannot do it.' 

The room was small, and the only place to sit was on the bed. They sat on the edge, side by side, tired, each separately wishing it were possible to forego this conversation and just go to sleep. 

'Child, by your account, six people have so far been executed while pleading their innocence. Do you think the truth is any less a victim here, than they were? This is not such a terrible lie. If you wish, I will marry you.' 

_If we survive this_ , he added silently. No point in terrifying her completely. 

The newspapers in Boston had discussed the trials in Salem, but it was difficult to strain out the facts from the froth. If Sarah Miller had no accusers except the men who had shamefully abandoned Rosemary to her fate, and they didn't actually _know_ she had died, it looked fairly good for Sarah. Certainly there was enough guilt to go around. 

Rosemary, as a woman married to a man of substance from Boston, might well be shrugged off to have left the area, and was certainly less likely to arouse suspicion than a local spinster of twenty-four. Hans Kershner felt certain that his presence as her husband would protect her from the judges. 

Early in the month, when he had begun his journey to various seaports, the Boston papers had not yet told the story of the trial of John and Elizabeth Proctor. 

§ § § § § § 

Rosemary lay very still and forced her eyes to remain closed. After a rather lengthy discussion to secure the details of the deception they would present on the morrow, Hans had lifted Rosemary's hand to his lips and bid her a goodnight. He blew out the candle and arranged himself on the floor beside the mattress, and Rosemary hastened to curl up on the bed with her back to him. 

She felt her heart would burst from the emotions tumbling within her breast. He had kissed her! She touched the back of her hand with a trembling forefinger, as though the light caress of his lips might have left a print she could trace. She had not in all her lifetime shared such close proximity with a man who was neither father nor brother. Her imagination surged with a sudden desire that Hans might kiss her again, and she battled the thought into submission, though not without resistance. The thought of his lips pressed sweetly to hers...she trembled at her body's reaction to her heated emotions, unfamiliar and frightening, yet alluring with the subtle reminder that the man of whom she was dreaming lay on the floor right beside her bed, and she had but to turn her head to see his silhouette in the darkness. 

Rosemary squeezed her eyes more tightly shut and quelled her desires with the firm reminder that such thoughts were shameful, even as she remembered Sarah's words the last day they were together. _I hope someday you fall in love, Rosemary. I hope you fall so desperately in love with a man that you ache for his touch ..._ But surely this wasn't love that she was feeling. How could a woman love a man she had only met two days before? Other words slipped into her memory, so recent they had hardly took hold in her mind: Hans' voice and his startling offer. _If you wish, I will marry you._

If she wished? What sort of proposal was that? She was shamed to realize that, it wasn't. Those were the words of a gallant man coming to her rescue. Were she not in such dire straits due to her untimely death and resurrection and determination to redeem the life of a friend, Hans would not have uttered such an outrageous statement. 

Neither did that make sense. No man would agree to burden himself for a lifetime with a woman who was herself so beset with troubles, especially if a lifetime meant forever. Hans already referred to her as his wife as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Rosemary realized she was doing it again: fighting a losing battle without the information she needed to answer in her own defense. 

Hans had not waited for her response; perhaps he did not expect one. Therefore, Rosemary would choose to ignore his suggestion. She would assume the role of Goody Kershner for as long as was necessary to relieve Sarah of the murderous accusations for which she was due to stand trial. After that she would be Rosemary Alden once more, and Hans' pupil for as long as he would have her. Despite all she had been through, she was still determined to marry for love, and not for convenience. 

Unbidden came the aching hope that perhaps Hans would truly love her someday, and would indeed take her for his wife. Foolish, to consider such an extravagant wish toward a man she hardly knew. Rosemary sighed into the crook of her arm and wondered how long a woman had to know a man in order to love him. To whom could she go with such a question? Most of the marriages in Salem were arranged to some extent, and love was often secondary to duty, if it was counted at all. 

Her last exhausted thoughts were guilt-ridden reminders that Sarah was spending yet another night in jail. That, added to the terror Hans had shared with her, that five more people were scheduled to hang day after tomorrow. Sarah wasn't among them, had not been sentenced yet, but oh, what her beloved friend must be enduring, and all because of Rosemary! 'It's going to be all right,' Rosemary whispered to the wall. 'I won't let them hurt you anymore. I won't let them hang you. I'll do whatever it takes to stop them, and Mister Ker ... my husband will help me.' Despite herself, Rosemary was proud that Salem would believe its spinster daughter had married a man of means and managed to keep her secret from them all. Rosemary could hardly wait to see Sarah and tell her all that had happened since the afternoon in the loft. They'd have to get the baby, too, Rosemary thought, because even when Sarah was set free, she couldn't, wouldn't leave Salem without the child. Rosemary would mention that to Hans first thing in the morning. 

He began snoring softly on the floor beside her. Rosemary smiled, enjoying the gentle rise and fall of his of his slumber. The barrage of thoughts that plagued her abruptly released their grip. Free of the chains in which she had bound herself, Rosemary drifted to sleep, her own breath matching the rhythm of Hans' slumber. 

**Seacouver, Present**

Chamomile, Joe said, made for a relaxing, sleep-inducing tea. Methos heaved a sigh of frustration as he gazed up and down the aisle. He doubted eight ounces of herbal tea would stand a snowball's chance against his nightmares, when his body's healing capacity was such that he really had to tie one on to consider himself even remotely drunk. Methos had, however, reached the point to which he would try almost anything that might result in a few hours of uninterrupted slumber. 

He picked up a box here and there, glanced at the text, returned it to the shelf; since the dawn of time, herbs had been brewed that could cause or cure just about anything. He had encountered a few of the less desirable sort in his day. Because of their potency, he knew better than to underestimate Joe's advice, even when logic blatantly defied it. 

Chamomile. He grabbed two boxes, checked out, and hastened home. In the mirror over the bathroom sink he took in the dark circles under his eyes and the pallor of his skin; even Immortals required sleep. He wandered to the kitchen, put water on to boil, and idly picked up the boxes of tea while he waited. Please, please, just one night without the dreams, the memories, the ghosts. 

He went still as he gazed at the boxes in his hands. Hadn't he purchased two of the same? Yet the second package sported a different name, and a tea he had deliberately avoided for centuries. It was supposed to relieve stress and cure headaches, yet the herb was better known through myth and history as a guarantor of love, fidelity and remembrance. It was revered for its curative powers and widely used in celebrations, religious ceremonies and magic potions. It accompanied lovers to the bed of their union. It embalmed the dead. 

'Also put the leaves under thy bedde and thou shalt be delivered of all evill dreames.' 

_Remember..._

Trembling, Methos turned off the burner, removed the pot to the sink, and tossed both boxes of tea into the trash. He made his way to the bathroom, rinsed the beads of sweat from his forehead, and crawled into bed. He curled tightly into a fetal position with his arms up over his head, as if he could make himself too small to be found by the legion he knew was already on its way. 

§ § § § § 

Find him the legion did, on the gray borderland between wakefulness and sleep, and it seized him and forced him to see again with agonizing clarity a scene more than three hundred years old. 

Methos leaned his face into the steam from the hot stew--venison after all--and inhaled, trying to block out the rising voices. The sound of a chair scraping on the wooden floor silenced all conversation. 

'The work of Satan? Perhaps. But perhaps not.' Methos risked a sidelong look at the one who dared to speak, a gray-haired, balding man of sixty. 

'What are you saying, John?' called a voice from the other side of the ordinary. 

Methos hunched his shoulders an inch lower and began to eat. 

'Don't think yourself safe from Satan's work, John Proctor,' the preacher said, speaking as loudly and carefully as if he were in the pulpit. 'If you do, you shall fall prey to it. Pride goes before a fall. Remember: 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' ' 

John's voice was soft. 'What I am saying is that we should have the doctor see them first, to be certain their brains aren't addled from fever or other sickness.' 

'Doctor Griggs won't be back for weeks,' the preacher protested. 

'Reverend Parris, if it were my daughter, I'd be worried, too,' John said. 'Your Betty is a good girl, and so is Abigail Williams. Let Doctor Griggs see them first before you talk of sorcery and Satan.' 

The preacher's voice broke as he said, 'But can we wait that long, John?' 

The tension that was in the room lessened. Methos risked sitting taller and stretching his legs. His foot bumped against his bag, which he shoved farther under the table. 

The serving woman screamed. 'The eyes of Satan! I saw them there!' she cried, gesturing under Methos' table. 

With slow and careful movements, he reached for his bag and put it on the table, then traced the two brass buckles. 

'It must have been the fire glinting on these,' he said. 

The people in the ordinary let out a collective sigh of relief. Something in the bag shifted then, making the bag clank and dance to one side, and the serving woman screamed again and cowered. The preacher's eyes narrowed, and he squared his shoulders and walked toward Methos. 

_Damn it all,_ Methos thought, although he wouldn't have dared to mutter that oath out loud. _The tall bottle fell over again._ Face neutral and mild, he began to unbuckle the bag for the preacher's inspection. 

The bag had been his for a few short weeks, bequeathed to him by a short-lived student who had made his living tricking people into buying his wares: herbs, mostly common ones but bagged and labeled with mysterious words of his own invention; a half dozen wooden nutmegs; useless ointments; doubtful hair remedies; and perfumed water. Methos, far from sentimental, kept the bag to sell off its contents. The winter weather was keeping the harbors closed, and he would have need of the money soon. 

Methos recognized all too well the terror that was beginning to take root among the townspeople. A peddler of potions and herbs was not likely to be well received in Salem. 

The bag was open, and Reverend Parris looked inside as if the very powers of darkness would spring up from within and devour him. He drew a breath and held it, then slipped one hand inside to withdraw one stoppered glass bottle and then another, then linen bags of dried herbs, then small crocks of ointments. 

The serving woman gasped. Her hand went to her throat. 'Magic potions,' she whispered, her voice strangled. 

'Not at all,' Methos replied. 'These are medicines.' 

He waited for the preacher to meet his eyes. 'I am a physician, sir, and I believe you have need of my services until your own Doctor Griggs returns.' 

'Divine Providence has brought you to us in our hour of need,' Parris said. 

'I am never one to argue with Divine Providence,' Methos said. 

A middle-aged man shouldered his way to the front of the group and bobbed his head at the preacher. 'Your pardon, Reverend, but Abigail and Betty will be asleep by now. Might the doctor see my wife first, please?' 

The preacher nodded assent and gestured for Methos to follow the man, stopping only to say, 'I am Samuel Parris. What is your name?' 

'Piers Adams,' Methos replied, replacing the items in his bag and buckling it, following the middle-aged man to the door of the ordinary. 

Outside, the rain was icy and the winds strong. It wasn't until they reached the man's house that Methos asked his name. 

The man closed the door behind them and waved Methos toward the fireplace. 

'I'm Ezekiel Miller,' the man said and then pointed to a teenaged girl propped in a chair by the fire. 'That's my wife, Sarah.' 

The girl was wrapped in a blanket. Only her large, frightened eyes moved, and they darted around the room, following every movement the men made. 

Ezekiel spoke gently but Sarah avoided looking at his face. 'Sarah, this is Doctor Adams, and he's come to help you.' 

Methos sent Ezekiel for more firewood, and in his absence, Sarah relaxed. Methos' examination revealed no troubling symptoms. Sarah was merely a girl riding through the fear, uncertainty, and nausea of her first pregnancy. 

'I dreamed the baby had the head of a cat,' Sarah whispered. 

'Surely the midwife has told you that such dreams are common,' Methos said. 

The girl pulled the blanket back around her. 

Methos smiled and patted her shoulder. 'Believe her. Those dreams are commonplace, and they never divine the fate of the child.' 

Disbelief was etched on her face. Methos tried another tack, reaching into the leather bag and removing a hair remedy that smelled of pine. 

'Rub a drop of this into your temples before sleeping. The scent will help you remember that the dreams cannot come true.' 

Her hand slipped out from under the blanket to take the small crock. Methos removed the lid and touched a fingertip to the surface, then made small circles of the ointment on Sarah's temples. 

'And to keep you and the child strong and healthy, you may drink an infusion of raspberry leaves every morning. And one of chamomile at night to help you sleep.' 

The door opened and closed behind him, and cold air spilled across the floor. 

'Rosemary?' Sarah asked. 

'Perhaps a little in cooking, Sarah, but not an infusion.' An old bit of lore surfaced in his mind, and he repeated it to her for good measure. 'Put the leaves under your bed, and it will deliver you from evil dreams.' 

'No,' Sarah said, brightening and smiling for the first time since Methos had entered her home. 'Behind you.' 

Methos turned to find a woman framed in the door. 

'Doctor Adams,' Sarah said, 'I'd like you to meet my friend Rosemary.' 

**Present Day**

Sliding the barred door of the loft's freight elevator up, Methos stopped dead in his tracks: Amanda was trying on her costume for the play. 

He stared, shook himself like a wet dog, and walked over to her. His stride was even, his hand steady, his voice gentle. He adjusted a ribbon, and said, 'She was pregnant, you know. Her complexion was a little sallow, because she wasn't eating right for herself and the baby. She would rub her cheek, like this.' 

Amanda was caught in the noose of Methos' voice. He showed her the gesture, the walk, the occasional stretch to relieve the tension of the situation. Mostly, she saw in the stretched skin of his face the terror that had inhabited Elizabeth Proctor as she and her husband were accused and tried for witchcraft. She quailed away from him, attempted a smile, and put up between them her two index fingers, crossed in a sign against the devil. 

Duncan rose lazily from a couch where he'd been playing chess with himself, crossed to them and threw his arm across Methos' shoulders, turning him away from Amanda. 'We need to get drunk.' 

The harsh bark that answered him was nothing remotely like a laugh. 'You don't have enough beer for that. Joe, in all the taps at the bar, doesn't have enough. It would just strain the sewage capacity of the city. I wish to hell I _could_ get good and drunk. So I could get some sleep.' 

**August 1692  
Salem**

Rosemary couldn't believe how well she had slept, alone in the room with this man she barely knew, the man who had presented himself as her husband, but was not. He could have shamed her last night, she knew. What could she have done? But there he was, looking out the window, his back to her, tactfully waiting for her to rise and dress. He'd left her half the water in the pitcher, and there was a sliver of soap on the lavatory. 

She couldn't think of anything to say. It seemed that when he had picked her up from the hay on the barn floor, he had picked up her burden, too. Could she save Sarah, really? Would it be as he had said, that if she weren't dead, there should be no reason to accuse Sarah? 

She stood there, stripped to the waist, washing, when he asked, 'How many tines had the pitchfork?' 

'It was a loft fork. Four,' she managed after she forcibly retracked her mind back to the day she'd fallen onto it. 

'They will examine you. They must find what they seek.' He turned to her, looking into her eyes, and said, 'This will hurt, but it is necessary.' 

From a pocket, he took a small folding knife, still just looking into her eyes. Then he knelt before her and made four small cuts across her chest, just below her breasts. Carefully, he inserted a tiny chip of flint into each one, and watched them heal, leaving a small lesion at each point. 

The knife had been very sharp. It had hurt a little, but the surprise of it--and the sureness of his touch--had kept her silent. 

Hans Kershner stood, and with that merry conspirator's grin, released her from her frozen stance. Cover herself, she thought, she ought to cover herself. Where was her modesty? But she didn't. She touched each of the four little marks with her forefinger, wondering if they would pass the scrutiny of the examiners. 

'They should. Given where they are, perhaps they won't spend much time looking. I'll go arrange for breakfast.' 

Dressing, Rosemary wondered just how many other of her thoughts he could read so accurately, and whether there wasn't something of witchery in him. 

**January 1692  
Salem**

'I am authorized to retain the services of a doctor as an examiner,' John Hathorne said to the man he knew as Piers Adams. 'Since Dr. Griggs is away, we require your services.' 

_I couldn't simply keep my mouth shut last night_ , Methos snarled at himself in the privacy of his mind. _No, I just_ had _to announce myself as a doctor. I should have seen this coming._

'How long do you expect this to take? I wish to book passage back to England.' 

'For the duration. We must have proper expert medical advice. You will remember in Norwich, when Amy Duny and Rose Cullender were condemned for witchcraft, the court was aided by the professional evidence of Dr. Thomas Browne. We don't have the eminent Dr. Browne, but we have you.' Hathorne's smile was chilly, brooked no opposition. 

'And the duration might be ... ?' 

'When there are no more witches in Salem, you will be free to go. Unless, of course, you would sooner join them in confinement for withholding your services to the colony in this, our time of need.' 

**Salem, August 18, 1692**

Methos' stomach knotted with helpless desperation and he blew at a fly circling lethargically about his mouth. Imprisonment had come so quickly, merciless and without recourse. He was questioned, accused, condemned, confined and ordered to prepare for public repentance upon his next appearance before the court. Three times in as many months he had refused to enter a plea. Three times he had been threatened with fates worse than death if his stubborn lack of cooperation persisted. 

He couldn't bring himself to confess to the outrageous lie. Six women had been executed, hanged on no more evidence than elaborate performances and pointing fingers. Five more would hang on the morrow, among them Methos' outspoken friend, John Proctor. The Voice of Reason had been drowned out by a community's hysteria that, so far as Methos could tell, had originated in the desire of two little girls for attention. The macabre method by which they had achieved it engendered the benefit of ongoing celebrity, to which others had eagerly committed themselves. Salem was already in an uproar as discord with politics, economy and religion escalated out of control. It too easily followed that residents would find both scapegoats and an outlet for their unbearable fury in the purging of witches from their midst. 

Methos remained horrified at the deadly swiftness with which accusations had erupted throughout the village, fueled by personal jealousies and epidemic superstition. Families turned inside out as spouses, parents, children turned one another in as witches, matching tale for horrible tale of sins committed, of corruption and violence and sordid misdeeds carried out at the behest of the Devil himself. 

Doctor Piers Adams planned to leave Salem the moment Doctor William Griggs returned. In the meantime, he applied every medicinal skill he had ever learned to the mysterious illness afflicting the girls of the Parris household. His efforts were to no avail; the girls not only remained ill, but grew more violent in their fits and seizures. Soon a total of seven girls were grieved with similar symptoms. Doctor Adams had his hands full attempting to mollify a village so afraid of the unknown. His only ally was the farmer and tavern owner John Proctor. John had vociferously defended his wife when she was accused of witchcraft. His stalwart assertion of Elizabeth's innocence led to his own accusation and conviction. John had written a letter to the clergy in Boston pleading for help. Methos did not know if the letter had reached its destination, but it didn't matter now, anyway. John would die tomorrow, and Doctor Adams would be given one last chance to agree to a trial for the sin of wizardry, or else...the court had not made clear what the 'else' would be, and Methos had entertained himself in a variety of ways throughout the past weeks in a determined effort to avoid speculation concerning his fate. 

Fear possessed the town by the time Doctor Griggs had returned to Salem in March, and flaring tempers would only be satisfied with a very good explanation for the girls' dilemma. No more able to supply one that Doctor Adams had been, Doctor Griggs conceded that their malady must spring from a supernatural source. This was what Salem had been waiting to hear. Logic and reason fled the ensuing hysteria. 

Doctor Adams booked passage out of Salem. He was approached by Judge Stoughton and Samuel Parris on the very day he was to leave. Parris' slave, Tituba, had confessed herself a witch. Furthermore, she had related that the Devil, appearing as a tall man from Boston, had pressed her to sign his book and enter into his service. When more information was required of her concerning her encounter with the Devil, she had fingered Doctor Adams as the Master himself. 

_'It's him! Master, what would you have me do! Oh, I did my best for you, out of fear and obligation, and now I am condemned to die for the misdeeds you laid upon me!'_

Methos could still see the Indian slave writhing before the judges, eyes rolling back in her head as she foamed about the mouth and feigned collapse. He shuddered at the malicious hatred in the eyes turned on him. Of course, they found him guilty. Who could doubt such a vivid display of his control over that poor woman? 

Nevertheless, Tituba was in jail, too. Methos was angered that in her own confession, the woman had dragged others down with her. 

Methos recited literature to his cellmates. He spoke with other captives through the rough wooden walls of his cell. He wondered how his patients were doing, not the ones who fancied themselves possessed of demons, but those who had simply needed the comfort and reassurance of a physician. As more witches were pointed out and convicted, the jail filled to capacity. Cells were stuffed with as many bodies as they could hold, and the courts did not even bother to sort the witches from the warlocks. 

Thus Methos found himself sharing quarters with John and Elizabeth Proctor. He murmured frequent words of encouragement and compassion to the sickly woman, so terrified for the child in her womb. She was spared death for the sake of her belly, and only for that sake did she have any wish to survive without her husband. 

Three days before, poor Sarah Miller had been cast among them. Her story was of special interest, for Methos remembered meeting the Rosemary of whose death Sarah was accused. He recalled the slight tingle that alerted him when Rosemary entered the Miller's home that winter evening, come to stay the night with her friend and comfort Sarah through the last weeks of her pregnancy. So Rosemary had fallen on a pitchfork and her body had disappeared. Methos carefully voided his face of expression when he suggested to Sarah that perhaps Rosemary's injuries had not been as serious as they seemed. 

'You weren't there,' Sarah insisted. 'You didn't see the blood flowing from her heart, the life fading from her eyes. Sir, I am as innocent as the babe I birthed so few weeks ago. 'Twas Judge Stoughton and Mr. Putnam who let Rosemary die. 'Tis they who wear her blood on their hands!' 

Methos was sorry for Sarah. There was no way she could know Rosemary was intended for the Immortality that was accomplished by her death. He wondered what had become of Sarah's friend. He hoped Rosemary had the good sense to stay far away from Salem, lest her second death on the gallows prove even more hideous than her first. 

He doubted Rosemary would be helped by the fact that John Alden sat as a judge on the court of Oyer and Terminer. 

**Present Day**

'So what was John Proctor really like?' Amanda asked Methos. 

Duncan dropped his hand from Methos' shoulder and began to make small negative gestures of his head. 

Methos stepped closer to Amanda and smoothed down the broad white collar of her costume. 'He was a good businessman, a good friend. He said what was on his mind, stood up for what he believed was right. Crisis brings out the best in some people. You've seen it; I've seen it. Crisis brought out the best in John. He couldn't believe--none of us could--that the insanity that gripped the town would win out. He followed, with perfect logic, every step that a rational and intelligent man would take in his situation.' 

'And he died for it.' 

'Because crisis brings out the worst in most people, Amanda. We've both seen it.' 

In one smooth move, Duncan slipped between them, turned Amanda around, and keyed the elevator. 'You have a blocking rehearsal to get to,' he told her. Turning back to Methos, he said, 'And you and I are going to get drunk.' 

'Not possible, MacLeod.' 

Two hours later, Methos was on the couch and Duncan on a large chair, both men with feet propped on the low, broad table between them, a half a dozen partly empty liquor bottles lined up next to an ice bucket. Methos blinked and squinted into the oversized cocktail shaker he was drinking from and wondered out loud how much longer he'd be able to focus. Duncan smiled and settled lower into the chair, enjoying a good round of I-told-you-so. 

'The problem with you is that you drink beer,' Duncan said, speech slurring. He hefted his own cocktail shaker, the contents of which nearly sloshed over the side. 'If you drink this stuff, you get good and drunk.' 

Methos dropped his head on the back of the couch and directed his answer to the ceiling. 'I'm not drunk, or at least I won't be long enough to sleep.' 

He swiveled his head down--it bobbed a little on landing--and looked at Duncan, opening and closing his left eye experimentally and squinting with the right. 'You're drunk,' he said. 'What happens if we have to ... ' he finished his sentence by waving an imaginary sword in the air. 

'Amanda'll be back soon. She'll protect us,' Duncan said. 

As if on cue, the elevator rattled. Duncan turned toward the elevator and gave a bow from his chair, sweeping his arm majestically and saying, 'Told you. It's 'Manda.' 

She slid the elevator door up and walked across the room. Before she reached the table, she stopped and announced the obvious: 'You two are drunk.' 

'As a skunk,' Duncan said. 

'We're wasted.' 

'Polluted, potted.' 

'Three sheets to the wind. Or is it four, MacLeod?' 

Duncan screwed up the side of his mouth in thought. 'One of those. We're stewed.' 

'Dancing in the arms of Bacchus,' Methos said. 

'You made that up,' Duncan accused. 

'Did not. Socrates said it all the time.' 

'Amanda?' Duncan said. 'We're pissed.' 

Amusement played across her lips. 'I can see that.' 

Duncan lolled his head back to rest against her thigh and gave her a broad, unguarded smile. 

'MacLeod,' Methos announced. 'I can feel my feet.' 

'We can't have that.' Duncan leaned across to the ice bucket and peered inside. 'It's empty, but I'll make some more.' 

Amanda's amusement changed to mock horror as she watched Duncan pour liberal quantities of scotch, gin, and vodka into the ice bucket. Her mock horror changed to the real thing when he added the bottle of cognac. 

'Not the Napoleon!' she shrieked. 'That's the last time I buy you a bottle for your birthday, and it'll serve you right.' 

'Elizabeth,' Methos quoted. 'Your justice would freeze beer.' 

Amanda took her eyes from the bottle of tequila long enough to ask, 'Did John Proctor really say that?' 

'Amanda, dearest,' Methos answered. 'I can assure you that no one in the history of the world has ever really said that except in Mr. Miller's play. Hurry up, MacLeod.' 

Duncan obediently began pouring the last ingredient, half of a bottle of anisette. Amanda squealed at the sight. 

'The sugar in it boosts the alcohol across the blood-brain blarrier ... barrier,' he explained in a professorial tone. He stirred the whole business with a ladle and gestured for Methos' cocktail shaker. 

Methos took a long pull of the drink and sighed, closing his eyes. Amanda dipped her pinky finger into the ice bucket and tasted the drink, then shuddered. Duncan took her hand from her and popped the same finger in his own mouth. 

'I'm sorry, Amanda, but you can't have any,' he said. 'You're the designated fighter tonight.' 

He and Methos collapsed into fits of laughter, and Amanda turned away from them. 

'I'm going to take a bath and leave you to drink,' she said. They laughed even harder. Duncan was wiping tears from his eyes. 

'Jus' leave the door unlocked.' Duncan said. 'In case we have to ... you know.' 

'Commune with the porcelain god,' Methos said. 

'Heave.' Duncan added. 

'Lose our lunch.' 

'Talk to Ralph on the big white phone.' 

'Toss lotus petals before Isis.' 

'You made that up, Methos.' 

Amanda rolled her eyes. 'Have fun, you two.' 

'This isn't fun,' Duncan said, indignant. 'This is medicinal!' 

The door closed hard behind her. Duncan placed his cocktail shaker between his legs, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and attempted to touch his fingertips to his nose. His hands went wide of his nose, landing by turns on his mouth, in his ear, and on his cheeks. 

Methos leaned forward, suddenly serious. 'When I was in medical school in Heidelberg, there was a student there who hated medicine.' 

Duncan stopped trying to touch his nose and stared at Methos. 

'He hated medicine,' Methos said. 'He hated school; he hated the sciences; he hated dealing with sick people, said they smelled funny; he hated dealing with people who weren't sick.' 

'So why was he there?' 

'He was there because his grandfather sent him. He told him to become a doctor because that way, he'd always be safe. He'd tell him, 'Kingdoms rise and fall, wars come and go. Bankers are killed and lawyers, too. Peasants by the thousands. But doctors--doctors stay alive no matter what. People always need doctors.' He became a doctor because he thought he'd be protected from the madness in the world.' 

Duncan waited while Methos took a long swallow of drink. 

'It was a lie, MacLeod.' 

Duncan looked down, staring at his reflection in the drink. 

'MacLeod?' Methos said, holding out his empty cocktail shaker. 'I think I'm beginning to feel my feet again.' 

**August 1692  
Salem**

As accommodations went, the Salem jail didn't have much to recommend it, but there was this: when two more Immortals were dumped into the cell, it was unlikely that any would challenge. 

Sarah Miller's whispered, 'Rosemary!' would have been as good as a shout, if Methos had not been aware that the newcomers were arriving. 

Just as Stoughton had done, Sarah walked up to Rosemary, and reached out to her face. This time, Rosemary took the outstretched hand in both her own and then pressed it to her cheek. There could be no doubt: She was warm and solid, neither specter nor fetch. 

Hans Kershner and Piers Adams considered each other across the fetid cell. 

'What are you doing here?' Dr. Adams asked. 

Kershner wore an expression compounded of bewilderment and bitter amusement. 'Somebody in England, a Dr. Thomas Browne, wrote a book, _The Garden of Cyrus_. Evidently, the general idea is that twelve is a natural number, a perfect number, which occurs often in nature. Increase Mather brought the book back with him, his son Cotton read it, and was duly impressed with its examples. Six people have already been executed for witchcraft, five are scheduled for tomorrow, and Rosemary, they say, ought not to have survived her injuries. So, she will die on the morrow, to round out the dozen.' 

'But what are you doing here at all? You were well away.' 

Rosemary clearly didn't comprehend her circumstances. 'I thought that if I hadn't died, Sarah would have to be innocent. We came back to free Sarah. We thought ... ' 

'That was your first mistake,' John Proctor said. 'You thought there was some reason to all this. There is not. There is only fear, and hatred, and the power of some to do this to us.' 

**Present Day**

'They were going to hang that woman, _just to make a dozen_?' Duncan and Methos had survived their epic tie-on and Methos had even succeeded in getting about five hours' sleep, or stupor, before their intake had worn off. There was just enough vodka left to make a bloody mary for each of them for breakfast. 

Methos crunched busily at his crisp celery, waved the leafy end, and shrugged, 'It was as good a reason as any. Once you start killing ... ' Methos paused. He looked Duncan directly in the eyes. 'It takes on a momentum of its own. It becomes a sort of natural force, snowballing. It's easier to go on doing it than it is to stop. 

'Kershner got into the jug with the rest of us because he had the temerity to point out that we had ten fingers and ten toes, so clearly they were already over the bar. Then he made it worse by asking what would happen if, after executing twelve, the court considered that there were still witches in Salem. Stoughton said they'd start on the next dozen. It was a no-win deal.' 

**August 1692  
Salem**

Kershner edged his way over to Dr. Adams, and the two of them stood with their backs to their cellmates. 'Is there any way you could testify that her injuries need not have been fatal? Indeed, they were not.' 

'My testimony might not be very helpful. Tituba told them that I was her demonic Master, and here we are. Have you ever been hanged?' 

By an almost imperceptible nod, Kershner indicated that he had. 'But Rosemary is very young.' Young, he meant, in years, but also young as an Immortal. 

'Suppose ... we could get her out of this?' 

Kershner looked at the other man. 'What are you proposing?' 

'They want a dozen, give it to them. It just will not include Rosemary. Offer an exchange: She goes free. I will explain to them that you were my student, and you learned from me how to keep a person alive after a mortal wounding. After what Tituba said, they're going to get me, anyhow. I will offer to explain to them how to drive the devil out of you. Afterwards ... ' 

_Afterwards, life goes on. For us_ , the shared knowledge of Adams and Kershner lay quietly between them. 

Their jailer obliged the request for foolscap, a goose feather quill and ink. Sitting with his back to the wall, Kershner began, 'Being of sound mind, and aware of the uncertainties of life, I declare this to be my Last Will and Testament. To my beloved wife, Rosemary, I bequeath all my worldly goods ... ' and he went on to outline his holdings in Boston, the chandler's business, and named a solicitor as executor. 

Ezekiel Miller had been besieging the judges since word of Rosemary's reappearance had spread throughout Salem. Why should he pay a wet nurse to care for the baby when his wife, clearly innocent of murder, could come home and do it herself? 

Rosemary stared at the sheet of paper she held, the will of a man she barely knew, which endowed her with all his worldly goods. She studied his face, puzzled. Was that the ghost of a grin, flickering far back in his eyes, although his face seemed grim? 

'Go the solicitor's, live in the house, and wait. This will all work out.' 

Rosemary stood in front of Kershner, unaware of the tears tracking down her cheeks. He had done what he had said he would--Sarah would leave the jail with Rosemary, but what of him? Would they hang him? 

The man she knew as Doctor Adams, the man she had first met at Sarah's house, seemed to have somehow forged a quick alliance with Hans. There was something similar about them, although they looked very different. She didn't clearly understand why she was being freed, and Hans was staying in the jail, but he had given her money for passage to Boston, been escorted to see her off at the stage, and returned to the jail. 

Before the hoof beats of the coach horses had faded from hearing, Methos was spinning a tale for his credulous listeners, about how demons could be squeezed out of a person they had possessed, and various methods of accomplishing this eviction. 

Rosemary sat tense and alone in the coach, her thoughts as convoluted as the mass of tangled threads that backed an elaborate tapestry. She closed her eyes against that last, endless hug from her beloved friend, and Sarah's gentle refusal of Rosemary's plea. 

'I can't come to Boston with you, Mary. Everything I know is here in Salem. I can't endure the thought of leaving my baby, and Ezekiel would kill me himself before he would allow me to take the child and come with you. My husband is true to his duties, if not gentle and loving. I will stay here and mind my manners and raise my child and wait; these terrible times can't last forever, can they, Rosemary? Perhaps when the Stoughtons and Putnams and Mathers have sated their appetite for blood, peace will return to our village and, when it does, perhaps you can return as well.' 

Rosemary shook her head again, as though responding to a fellow passenger. 'I fear I will never return to Salem,' she had said. 'Oh, Sarah--my dearest friend in the world! How glad I am that you have been released from these groundless accusations. How sorry I am that I may never see you again. It's almost more than I can bear!' 

'The Lord has blessed you, Rosemary. I have been granted more already than I should have had the right to ask, but I wish one thing more: that we had the time for you to share with me how you survived certain death and how you met Goodman Kershner and became his wife. He is so good to you, Rosemary, and I envy you more now than I did before. You feel more intensely toward your husband than I will ever feel toward mine, I can see it in your eyes with every glance. And how gently considerate he is of you! I hope Goodman Kershner finds grace in the eyes of the court and is released to join you in Boston. If not, if you are widowed so dreadfully soon, you have already experienced a more loving encounter than many women ever will. Remember that, Mary. I love you, my friend. You are more a sister to me than any of my own.' 

'I love you, Sarah.' Rosemary whispered the words, wincing that she had allowed her best friend to believe the lie presented by Hans. Sarah, of all people, deserved to know the marriage was a hoax. Rosemary had been unable to balance the merits of honesty against the dangers of telling Sarah the truth, and so she had allowed the deception to stand. 

'Write to me, when you can,' was Sarah's last plea. 

'I will wait for kinder news of Salem,' Rosemary said. 'I won't endanger you further by providing the court with evidence that you are corresponding with a witch.' 

There had been tears and, worse, there had not been time after her sorrowful farewell with Sarah to say a proper goodbye to Hans. 

Rosemary had stood before him, speechless at the sacrifice he was making on her behalf. Hans clasped both her hands in his and smiled into her eyes. The other occupants of the crowded cell turned politely away. 

Hans brushed away her tears, his hand lingering to caress her face. 'It will be all right,' he murmured. 'Please follow my instructions to the letter to ensure your own safety, and wait for me at our home in Boston.' 

The tone of his voice made the words more a request than an order, and Rosemary was again awed at the inexplicable care so willingly offered by this enigmatic stranger. 

Hans cupped her chin in his hand and lowered his face to hers, brushing his lips gently against her cheek. 'Take good care, Rosemary.' He took her in his arms and whispered into her ear. 'I will join you as soon as I am able.' 

Words had failed her. Rosemary had wished the embrace would never end. She clasped his hands tightly and nodded. The tears were still trickling down her face when she boarded the coach and, as she remembered the abrupt departure and all the thoughts she had not been able to put into words, they started again, slowly, one after another, dripping from her chin to spot the dress Hans had provided for her along with food, shelter and a new identity. 

Rosemary had never in her life felt so lost, and so secure. She alit from the coach at the harbor and stared absently across the water. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to return to Salem and rescue the man who had won freedom for Sarah by proving the accusations against her to be outright lies, and then for Rosemary, by offering up his own life in exchange for hers. 

That she was helpless in the face of Salem's hysteria left her angry and desperate. Hans had planted an underlying calm to check her rampant emotions with his last words. Rosemary had reached an emotional impasse: she could neither bear to let Hans die in her stead, nor could she cheapen his sacrifice by returning to Salem against his wishes. 

She reeled at the impact of her upended life. Here she stood, Immortal, claimed as wife by a man of considerable wealth, and destined to inherit his all upon his death. Her heart and mind were already too overwhelmed with the present to ponder her future. 

§ § § §  

'We will present our performance this evening.' Hans faced Doctor Adams with an expression of anxious determination. 

'You show tremendous concern for a young lady you hardly know.' Doctor Adams tilted his head with curiosity. 

'Rosemary has barely experienced immortality. I've had no opportunity to provide her with the slightest notion of self-defense. Her hand has never gripped the hilt of a sword. I've had time to explain so little. She is ignorant as to what she has become. In my home, she should be safe enough. It is the journey that concerns me. Should she encounter another Immortal along the way, she would not know how to address that individual, friendly or not.' 

Doctor Adams nodded. 'I understand, but that's not quite what I meant. You have claimed Rosemary as your bride, gone so far as to address her thus in front of her father.' 

'John Alden's presence as a judge is the only reason Rosemary was released,' Hans mused. 'He cares more for his daughter than he is able to admit, under the circumstances.' 

Doctor Adams nodded again, and allowed Hans to evade the subject about which Piers was so inquisitive. Love happens to the best of us, he thought, and it isn't usually inclined to announce itself with bells, banners and proclamations. It steals into the heart and asserts its claim when least expected. Rosemary was both simple and beautiful. Her strength and determination were unattractive features that most men despised in a woman, but Rosemary could earn reprieve for those qualities with an innocence that made her more lovely than most. 

Hans sighed and fidgeted; the cell was too crowded for him to pace. He faced Doctor Adams once more. 'I sorely regret my decision to send Rosemary away, alone and unprotected. Unwilling as I was to see her die here, at least I could have been with her.' 

'No,' Doctor Adams said. 'You would have been locked in this cell, unable to defend her when she resurrected right before them all, only to be killed again and again in more ways than either of us care to imagine, and each more despicable than the last. There are things worse than death.' 

Hans stood very still, then nodded, slowly. 'With that, I cannot argue. But let us not delay carrying out our intent. I do not wish to leave Rosemary to her own devices for any longer than I can help.' 

'This evening, then,' Doctor Adams replied. 

Hans gave a curt nod and faced the wall, gazing at the rough wood as if he could stare hard enough to call forth a vision of what he wished to see. Doctor Adams directed a slight smile at the back of Kershner's head and looked away, envious. Few women in his own life had merited the benefit of a second thought. When one did, she was indeed worth compromising a life that suddenly seemed a meaningless existence without her. 

Hans turned back from the wall and considered the man he called Piers Adams. He lowered his voice and angled his face away from the others in the dim cell; the two Immortal coconspirators had decided early in the day not to let the other inmates know their plans. George Burroughs, John Proctor, John Willard, George Jacobs, Martha Carrier, all five scheduled to die the next day. The plan--if it worked--should prove them innocent, but it was best not to give them, exhausted and frightened as they were, the opportunity to undermine the operation. 

'Did they believe you?' Hans asked. 

'Enough to convene the other judges to hear my story again. They'll come after dark, when Judge Danforth has returned.' 

The chinks in the wooden walls changed from golden to pink and then faded. Sunset brought little relief from the heat, humidity, or smell of unwashed bodies inside the jail. 

Relief for one of the inmates came in the form of heavy footsteps and a brusque call from the opening door: 'Piers Adams, step forward.' 

He stepped into the cool night air and followed two guards to the court. Inside were Judges Hathorne, Sewell, and Danforth, and the Reverend Mather. A single candle, placed on the desk of the clerk, Judge Sewell's son, cast pools of light interrupted by shadows. 

'Doctor Adams?' Judge Hathorne said. 

The defendant nodded, the right side of his face glowing, his eye glinting in the candlelight, the left invisible in the darkness. 

'Will you confess your guilt? Are you Tituba's master? How did you induce her to hurt those girls?' Judge Hathorne asked. 

'I am innocent,' It was the only answer he could give. He could hardly convince the Court of Oyer and Terminer that his methods were true if they thought he was in league with the Devil. 

'Judge Sewell and I have consulted with Judge Danforth and the Reverend Mather. We have determined that the full complement of the court will hear what you have to say. I will ask you to repeat what you said this afternoon.' 

'You all, no doubt, know of the many methods of squeezing the Devil out of a witch's body. The water test, pincers, pressing with stones, red hot pokers ... ' 

'Yes, yes,' the Reverend Mather said. 'You needn't tell us what we already know.' 

The haughty raised eyebrow stopped the pastor and prompted Judge Hathorne to say, 'Let the doctor continue.' 

'The Devil is strong, yes? And human flesh weak,' he continued. 'The problem with all of these methods is that the body often fails at the same time the Devil releases the poor, tormented soul.' He paused for dramatic effect. 'The victim dies.' 

'Better to die free of Satan than live in his grasp,' the pastor said. 

'Better still to find something that the body can withstand and the Devil cannot.' 

'Indeed, Doctor,' Judge Hathorne said. 'You mentioned it this afternoon. Pray, repeat it for us now.' 

A vibration shook him; another Immortal was approaching. He turned his head quickly to the left, stared into the darkness, listened for Kershner. He wasn't supposed to ask the guards to see the judges for at least another hour, giving more than enough time for the doctor's expert testimony. 

The Reverend Mather nudged his neighbors and pointed out the defendant's penetrating stare into the dark corner of the court. 

Judge Hathorne cleared his throat and prompted, 'Doctor Adams?' 

He faced the judges. 'Have them declare their faith. The Evil One cannot stand the light of the truth any more than fire can burn under water.' 

'Declare their faith how?' Mather asked. 

He had spent an hour in the jail preparing for this moment, remembering, practicing, lest a single word or syllable be misspoken. ' _La ilaha illa Allah, Muhammadur rasul Allah_ ,' came unbidden to his lips, and he swallowed them, nearly shuddering to think what his judges would think of the _shahadah_. He quelched the Three Refuges of Buddhists, too, and _Sh'ma Yisrael Adonai_. Nervous laughter bubbled up inside him, and he pushed it aside, mercilessly dragging the faces of the other accused before his mind's eye, forcing desperate concentration. 

'Our Father, which art in Heaven ... ' he intoned, flowing--now that he had begun--effortlessly through the prayer, which he repeated in Latin, and then said the Nicene Creed, including the _filioque_ for good measure. When finished, he stood, a near smile on his half-shadowed face, waiting for the judges' approval. 

'Truly the jail walls are heavier than we thought,' Judge Hathorne said. 'For you seem unaware that Goody Nurse recited The Lord's Prayer on the gallows.' 

'And you still hanged her?' 

The Reverend Mather opened a heavy book. 'While it is generally believed that witches cannot recite the prayer Our Lord taught us to pray, it is not, in fact, true.' He read from the book, quoting the title first and then the relevant lines. ' _Malleus Maleficarum_. Question One, Chapter Five. ' ... Secondly, that God, being so heavily offended by men, may grant the devil greater power of tormenting them. For so says Saint Gregory, that in His anger He sometimes grants the wicked their prayers and petitions, which He mercifully denies to others. And the third reason is that, by the seeming appearance of good, he may more easily deceive certain simple men, who think that they have performed some pious act and obtained the grace from God, whereas they have only sinned the more heavily.' ' He closed the book. 'So you see, it is the seeming appearance of good, the reciting of the Creed or The Lord's Prayer, that is intended to deceive simple men. 

The judges nodded approval at the pastor's words. 

'We are not deceived.' 

The candle wavered and steadied. The Reverend Mather continued, 'Your actions and the testimony of witnesses condemn you.' 

'What actions?' 

Mather indicated his neighbors on the bench with a nod. 'Did you notice with me how Doctor Adams jerked his head to the shadows not more than five minutes ago, seeing what we did not, a specter?' 

The judges all assented. The doctor swallowed hard, the faces of the other accused still before his mind's eye, but now with ropes about their necks, their heads at unnatural angles, their tongues swollen and blackened. 

The courtroom doors banged opened, and Hans and the five accused were led inside. 

Judge Hathorne called the names of each in turn. 

'Piers Adams, do you confess your guilt?' 

'I am innocent.' 

'Then you will hang on the morrow.' 

'George Burroughs, do you confess your guilt?' 

'I am not guilty.' 

'You also will hang on the morrow.' 

John Proctor, John Willard, George Jacobs, and Martha Carrier all gave the same answer; all were condemned to the gallows. The judge then called the last of the accused. 

'Hans Kershner, do you confess your guilt?' 

Hans cast his eyes at the other Immortal, who warned him with a subtle shake of the head. Indignation barely contained, he squared his shoulders and challenged the court, 'Yes, damn it! I'm guilty of whatever you want.' 

'Witchcraft?' asked Judge Hathorne. 

'The blackest kind.' 

'How did Satan appear to you?' 

'As a red-haired man with a mole. He danced in the moonlight and wore women's clothing.' 

The Reverend Mather closed his eyes in relief. 'The Lord is gracious to those who confess their guilt. You may rest in the comforting assurance of his pardon.' 

He stood astonished as Judge Hathorne released him and bade him a safe journey to Boston. Hans saw the small, resigned gesture with which Doctor Adams dismissed him. He made to return to the accused but was escorted away by the guards; he walked all the way to the edge of town, his mind burning with the memory of tears welling up in the one brightly lit eye of his Immortal friend. 

  
Cool and fresh, the night air carried salt, tides, and the beginnings of a land breeze coming off the cooling forests. Hans stood on the road at the edge of Salem, gulping the air through his open mouth, filling and refilling his barrel chest until his lungs felt clean again. 

He was chuckling to himself. Inexplicably, his words of mockery had been his key to freedom, and south down this coastal road lay his home, business, and life. South meant Salem would be only one more link in the chain of his very long life. South meant Boston, and this time, instead of just a dark and silent house, there would be someone waiting. It had been years, a decade, since anyone had awaited his homecoming. 

Walking from Salem to Boston was foolish: it was too far, it was night, yet perhaps Hans would walk as far as the next stop for changing horses. He wanted to be rid of the stench of the jail, of the whole village of Salem, and at first his steps were driven, powerful, but within a mile, they had slowed. 

Still, he didn't quite stop; he marched on steadily, until the certainty that someone would have to claim the body of Piers Adams dragged him to a halt. Whatever else happened at Salem, Adams must not recover in sight of the judges and townspeople. Besides, Hans had left things at the inn, including his sword. 

It seemed unlikely that those executed would be buried in hallowed ground. Somehow, he would have to find just where they were being taken. 

Dr. Adams had been allowed his practitioners' bag in the jail, because he had been treating prisoners. Canny as he was, he would probably figure a way to dose himself with something that would slow the return of consciousness, buy himself some time. 

Slowly, reluctantly, Hans Kershner turned north again, and having made that decision, looked into the woods for a good leafy place to spend the rest of the night. 

§ § § § § 

It was over, then. Hans counted five bodies, and asked a bystander, 'I thought there were six to be executed today?' 

'Five.' 

Hans had thought that nothing would make him set foot near that jail again, but he stood there, asking the jailer about Dr. Piers Adams. 

'Mather came for him, late last night. Didn't bring him back. Maybe thought hanging was too good for him. He was probably the one who started all this, if that Indian woman was telling the truth.' 

Hans covered his involuntary snort with a cough. As if any of the accusers had been in shouting distance of the truth in all this! He set off to find Mather. 

Before Hans raised his hand to the doorknocker, he knew there was another Immortal inside. Surely the reverend Cotton Mather, witch hunter _extraordinaire,_ would not have brought the man he thought was at the bottom of all this, into his home? 

When the door opened, he looked beyond Mather's shoulder to see someone whose sailing vessels Hans had helped outfit. Phips, risen far from being a ships'-carpenter himself, had once had a shipyard in Maine, but Indian disorders had forced it to be abandoned. Smiling broadly, the new governor of the colony crossed the room, hand outstretched to Kershner, bringing with him his wife--the Immortal whose presence Hans had felt, standing on the stoop. 

Greetings made, Hans turned to the younger Mather. 'I came back to ask after the doctor who was good to my wife. I would have paid for his burial, but he was not among the deceased.' 

'He met a solitary fate. He continued to refuse to admit his guilt, even though we used one of his techniques to drive out his demon. Alas, his human flesh was weak. Still, it is better to be dead than to live in the grasp of the Goat,' Cotton Mather assured Kershner. 

'And what has become of his remains?' Hans asked. 

'He had repeatedly expressed a desire to take ship for England. I had a cooper put him in a cask,' Mather explained blandly, 'and it will leave with this evening's tide. On the _Damocles_ , I believe it is?' he turned to the governor with the question. 

'Yes. She's going to make a stop at Boston, then sail for Liverpool. You know, it's a little slower than the stage, but a more pleasant way to travel. My wife and I are leaving to return to Boston on her. Perhaps you would join us. We could catch up on old times, and I could tell you about the salvage expedition.' 

Phips had risen far and fast, mostly on the money from that salvage, Hans knew. Although he'd been a captain of ships, he was still unlettered, still not a gentleman, for all he'd been knighted. What had possessed him to agree to take a caskful of corpse onto his ship, and how much of a hand had Mrs. Phips in the agreement? 

Not allowing his curious gaze to stray to Phips' wife, Hans admitted that he would be glad to join them. What must it be like, he wondered, to rejoin life stuffed into a barrel deep in the hold aboard a ship? He sincerely hoped he never had to learn, first-hand. It was to be hoped that the good Doctor was not susceptible to _mal-de-mer_. 

The evening breeze was invigorating as it ruffled his hair, clean, and his clothing, fresh and new. He faced the Atlantic and drank in the vista of ocean and sky. It would be easy enough to forget the hideous paradox that was Salem Village, were he not so eager to disembark in Boston and take hold again of the one good thing that had made the experience all the more remarkable. He wondered what Rosemary thought of the house, and suppressed a smile that a woman her age should be so concerned with propriety. As he saw to her education and instructed her in the use of the sword, he would also coax her to relax in his presence and teach her that fun and laughter were not the sinful curses she had been led to believe they were. 

He felt the presence and lowered his hand casually to the hilt at his waist. 

'There has been quite enough of that, don't you think?' 

Hans turned his eyes farther than his head, addressing the governor's wife with oblique caution. 'Enough, Lady Phips?' 

She stood beside him and inhaled deeply, closed her eyes with relief, and exhaled slowly, much as Hans had been doing since the ship departed Salem. 

'Of death, of course. Of battles with predetermined outcomes that dictate the less fortunate participant shall lose his life. I have been married before, and widowed. I will be widowed again. Death is a certainty of the mortal race, and yet the poor fools are so fascinated with that moment that they forget to live the interim. I have met few who wish to perish, yet most seem to find tremendous entertainment in forcing each other to a premature end. Why do you suppose that is?' 

'Ignorance,' Hans said, turning his attention back to the view. The woman bore no weapons, expressed no animosity. She merely appeared weary. 'That, and fear of the unknown. It has ever been thus, Lady Phips.' 

'You may call me Mary, if you prefer,' she said. 'I was Mary Phips before I was Lady Mary Phips, and I was Mary Spencer before that. I am more comfortable with my name than with the title. So you have taken Rosemary Alden to wife?' 

Hans was taken aback at the question. He recovered quickly, and smiled. 'I have.' 

Lady Phips nodded thoughtfully. 'I've kept an eye on her since William and I took residence in Salem. I heard of her death, of course; rumors of Sarah Miller's guilt incited the entire village. I slipped out to the farm, but Rosemary was already gone. I am glad you found her,' Lady Phips smiled, 'for both your sakes, and for mine. It has been quite some time since I enjoyed the friendship of a woman who is also an Immortal. I look forward to her company on our voyage.' 

Hans nodded; he found Lady Phips' direct manner somewhat intrusive, though no more so than that of her husband. 

'What of Doctor Adams?' Hans asked, carefully redirecting the conversation. 

'He is stored safely in the hold. It was I who suggested that upon his death, his body should be returned to England. Mather took great pleasure in having the Devil's remains sealed in a cask. I was in no position to argue. I was also accused of witchcraft, if you didn't know, and was jailed despite William's position as governor. I trust Cotton Mather no farther than I could throw him, and he remains quite open about the fact, to me and to William, that the feeling is mutual. He must respect me for political reasons, and makes an admirable show of it. Doctor Adams' resurrection, however, paired with my interest in returning the deceased to England, would have doubtless earned me a trip to the gallows. I did what I had to do as quickly as I could in order to preserve everyone involved. I am sorry for the Doctor's discomfort in the meantime but he will, after all, live.' Lady Phips yawned widely and directed a long, appreciative glance toward the horizon. 'Goodnight, Mister Kershner. William and I plan to retire early this evening. We look forward to visiting with you and your wife on the morrow.' 

She took her leave and Hans returned to his study of the deepening hues illuminating the sky. The spacious deck was liberating after his stay in the jail, and he was in no hurry to trade the great wide open for the confines of his quarters. His thoughts wandered again to Doctor Adams and his sorry fate. Hans' freedom and the method by which it had been achieved would not soon be taken for granted. 

It was well after dark when he opened the door to his home and followed the welcomed tingle of Rosemary's presence to the well-lit parlor. He stopped at the doorway and stared at the woman before him, dressed in a fashionable gown, her hair curled in loose ringlets caught with a comb at the crown of her head. She hesitated for only a moment before rushing to meet him. 

The lady cried out his name, 'Mister Kershner!' and he took her in his arms automatically, his mind slowly matching the voice to its mistress. She drew away from him, her eyes searching is face for answers his words would not possess the power to give. 'Are you all right? Did they...did they...' 

'Rosemary?' he drew back, incredulous, for a better look. 

'Did they hang you? Mister Kershner, did you ... did they put you to death?' 

He shook his head, touched her face as others had done to verify her as real. 'No,' he managed. 'No, I was released.' 

'But how? They only released those who...oh, you didn't _confess_ to those horrible things!' 

Hans laughed so joyfully that Rosemary laughed with him. 'They believed me possessed, and I told them what they wanted to hear. It's all over, and I am all right.' 

'And Doctor Adams? Did they release him, too?' 

Hans hesitated, unwilling to lie, yet loath to tell her the horrible truth. 'Doctor Adams was not so fortunate,' he said, 'but remember, he is Immortal.' At Rosemary's pained expression, Hans added, 'Doctor Adams has experienced death before; as I have, as you did when you fell from the loft.' 

'But he is alive and well, now?' 

'He will be,' said Hans, 'when he reaches England. He is on his way there.' 

Hans paused and stepped back, still holding Rosemary's hands in his. She risked a glance at his expression before her eyes slid shyly away. 

'Do you like it? I went to Mister Bennett with the will, as you said, and he had his wife select a wardrobe for me...' 

Hans swallowed, hard, and reminded himself that she wasn't his wife, yet, and he would destroy any future relationship with her if he were too immediately forward with her. He allowed his gaze a pleasurable journey about Rosemary's finer points and, deciding he had taken liberty enough with her for one evening, raised his eyes to meet hers. 

'Oh, yes, I like it,' he said, and if only he could show her how much ... 'You are so very lovely,' he breathed. She smiled and blushed with sweet surprise, and only the subconscious reminder that he was on a schedule kept him from expressing his feelings more openly, and to hell with the consequences. 

He settled for a gentle kiss to her brow and the intimacy of her warmth as she joined him on the settee. Again came that merry conspirator's grin as he gave both her hands a little squeeze. 'How would Mrs. Kershner feel about entrusting Mister Bennett with the management of her properties in Boston as she embarks on a journey to England with her husband?' 

_Deep in the hold of the_ Damocles, _he that was dead lived, and died, and lived again. There was little air to breathe, and not adequate room to breathe it, and all ceased to exist beyond the astonishing, desperate nightmare that greeted him upon waking only to asphyxiate the brief life that struggled, and failed._

'Please,' he begged, cried, screamed. 'Please, someone, anyone, hear me, help me...' 

Rosemary's squeal of acceptance to the invitation of a trip to England was followed by a delightful ripple of laughter, which, far more than the dress and hair, made a remarkable difference in the woman Hans had met in Salem. The hours before the _Damocles'_ departure flew by, with visits to solicitor Bennett's office, shopping, and packing. Hans and Rosemary embarked on the ship with little time to spare. 

Their feet made hollow, deep sounds on the deck, and Rosemary looked down, the bright flush on her cheeks at odds with the frown on her lips and worry in her eyes. 

'Do you promise that Doctor Adams will revive when we reach England?' she asked. 

Hans took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no way to temper the truth. 'Yes, he will. And probably will do so many, many times before we arrive.' 

'We must release him before then,' Rosemary said, the implications of what Hans had just said becoming clear on her horrified face. 'Please, Mister Kershner!' 

'We agreed that you would call me Hans, so as not to awaken suspicion from the captain,' he reminded her. 'We cannot release him, Rosemary. The ship is full. Even if we had the space to try, loose and shifting cargo is dangerous.' Tobacco and salted cod, lumber and sugar, the wealth of the Colonies from the Caribbean to Northern Atlantic was wedged into the hold, fitted as tightly and neatly as a puzzle. 

Rosemary looked at him with pleading eyes, heedless of the lock of hair that escaped her bonnet and blew across her face. Hans smiled at her and chafed her clasped hands between his. He released her hands and smoothed the lock of hair away from her face. 

'He was loaded near the end,' Hans said. 'Perhaps if he's near the food stores, when they've become depleted ... ' 

Rosemary grabbed at her stomach with one hand and reeled. Hans steadied her and looked around for the Immortal whose presence had caused his wife--for he found it easier and easier to think of Rosemary in those terms--to react so violently. 

'Lady Phips?' 

'Hans, please call me Mary.' 

He introduced Rosemary to her and inquired after the Governor. 

'He'll stay to administer the Colony,' Lady Phips said. 'He intends to stop the madness in Salem. Since his duties will take all of his time, I have been sent to London to go shopping.' 

She gave a concerned look to Rosemary. 'It seems that you are not used to our kind. Stay on deck to breathe the fresh air, and I'll send my girl with an infusion of chamomile. Drink half and put the rest on your forehead in a compress.' She turned a wicked grin on Hans. 'Perhaps your new husband will hold it there. Remove it now and then and blow across the damp skin; it will cool the fire that burns in her head. Do join me for dinner this evening. Rosemary, you have much to learn about the ways of our kind.' 

'But M ... my ... husband is my teacher,' Rosemary stammered. 

'And a man, as husbands generally are. As the ways for men and women are different in the mortal world are different, so are they in ours.' Lady Phips said. She gave them a nod and walked toward the steps that led to the passengers' cabins. 'Until this evening.' 

_He was certain now, as certain as he could be given the limited amount of air in his prison and the effect it had on his brain, that he had been wrong for centuries now, perhaps even a millennium. For that long he had denied that Purgatory existed. But now he knew it did. Deprived of light and air, with his face shoved against a grainy and rancid wooden surface, his left arm trapped behind the small of his back, and his legs bent painfully, he knew why he had been condemned to this place that hovered between torment and nothingness. He thought of his cellmates in Salem, spoke again the words he had said to them, 'Tell them you're guilty. Confess and they will release you.' He had begged and pleaded until Mather's man led him away in the middle of the night, but could not dissuade even his friend John Proctor from maintaining innocence._

If anyone deserved this Purgatory, then, it was him. He had failed to protect them; failed to leave them to protect himself--the memory of being pressed with stones made him shudder involuntarily even now. 

His stomach rose and fell heavily, then rose and fell again. Why hadn't he thought of doing what Kershner had? He'd seen Tituba forgiven for confessing. It should have occurred to him. Once again, he felt the rising and falling. He'd been stupid, filled with hubris, insistent on playing by Salem's rules, and it had blinded him. Again he felt his prison rise and fall, and he decided he'd been wrong about Purgatory. This place rose and fell like a ship at sea--so it must be Hell, unending, unimaginable torment. His eyes fluttered closed and his lungs worked like bellows to pull in the fetid air that no longer sustained him. He slid toward death again, his last thoughts being that he hated the sea. 

_Lady Phips was a lady indeed,_ Hans thought, _to undertake the cosseting of a seasick girl._ Impatient with Hans' efforts, Mary Phips had simply shooed him out of her cabin, and settled Rosemary into the tiny bunk. 

He stood with his back to the rail looking up at the rigging, idly estimating how much rope and canvas _Damocles_ , broad-beamed and Dutch, required to put to sea, how much she would carry in reserve (it being the hurricane season in the Atlantic), and wondering if he might approach the captain for his custom the next time she was in port in Boston. If he could keep his mind occupied, perhaps it wouldn't prod him about the man trapped in the hold. He calculated yards of cordage, hawsers, canvas, tar, and came up with some very pretty figures. _Damocles'_ captain would be good to cultivate, and he must certainly do this on the voyage. 

By the time the ship's purser approached him on his rounds, Hans had come to another conclusion: Since the tun containing Methos had been loaded at Salem, it probably wasn't very far down in the depths of the hull. 

'Guten Abend, Herr Kershner!' 

'Good even to you, master purser. We are making good time, aren't we?' 

A very satisfied smile spread across the broad face of the purser, who laced his fingers behind his back and swayed with the ship's roll. 'We are, indeed, and this should be a good and prosperous voyage.' 

Since the purser probably had the master's ear, Hans fell into a discussion of the ship, her sailing, and the materials needed to operate her. 

Standing by the taffrail hatchway when a sailor popped out as if pursued by devils, staggered to the rail, clung to it and shook, they were the first to gain his opinion that the ship was haunted: there was a ghost wailing in the hold. Sailors knew about St. Elmo's fire, about wind moaning in the rigging, this was different, the old man insisted. It came from within the ship, and it was in languages he'd never heard. 

'There were some strange things going on in Salem when I was there,' Hans offered in explanation, as his mind giggled crazily at the understatement. 'Perhaps you might lend me a lantern. I'll go into the hold with this man, and look.' 

But the man was not interested in going into the hold again that night: he would sleep on deck before he would go below. Hans knew very well how fear could grip a crew, and this would have to be stopped now. 

The purser had a map of lading, showing where the cargo had been stowed, and the barrel wasn't so far down. By the flickering light of the whale-oil lamp, they could see it, with Phips' mark branded into the white oak of one end. Unfortunately, it was the end without a bung. As the two men looked at the barrel, it began to groan. _Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem immortalia tangrunt,_ a voice intoned, solemnly, and then began to laugh. 

Suddenly Hans was almost as frantic to get the man out of the barrel as Dr. Adams was to be out. 

Crawling back toward the hatchway, he prayed for an axe to be kept by the coaming for emergencies. 

Shipshape and Bristol-fashion, Hans exulted, there it is! Crawling back to the barrel, kneeling bent double, he swung the axe horizontally to sink deep into the head of the cask. He pried half a board loose, and saw a booted foot. Methos must be terribly distorted in there. Carefully, the prised off the other boards, and pulled out the contents. Barely conscious, stinking, caked with filth, the thing at his knees opened its eyes and spoke with a terrible contempt: ' _E puer, si muove_!' 

Hans sat down, his back to the hatch thirty feet behind him, and as tenderly as he would gather up an ailing child, Hans Kershner pulled the other man up to lie against his chest, the reeking head lolling against his shoulder. Then he used his own powerful legs to inch them both back the planks toward the opening to the deck. He would have to come back for the lamp, guttering beside the shattered cask. 

'Yes, Dr. Adams, it moves. And so do we all.' 

The eyes that regarded Kershner were more than slightly mad. 'I couldn't. Not a bit. I have had some bad sea-voyages, steward,' he said, seriously, 'In very small cabins, but that was the worst. And no chamber-pot.' 

§ § § § § 

Lady Mary Phips opened her cabin door to find Rosemary sitting on the bunk, leaning back against the wall. Only her eyes moved, roving slowly about the tiny room. They paused at Lady Phips, and Rosemary offered a faint smile as she sat up straight. 

'Take it easy.' Mary closed the door. 'It's an adjustment, the sensation of the sea. Give yourself time to learn the feel of it. You are certainly looking better,' she commented, sitting beside Rosemary. The girl's pallor had receded under the petal pink of her cheeks, and her demeanor was less fearful and anxious. 

'I wish to see Hans.' 

'Of course you do, and he desires your company as well. The two of you have been married for so short a while that one minute apart seems a year. I saw him speaking with the purser and it appears he is occupied for the moment with details of the ship. I'm sure he will visit you shortly. How do you feel?' 

Rosemary lowered her eyes. 'Lost,' she said. 'Bereft. Afraid. Indebted far beyond what I could ever hope to repay.' She looked toward the door. 'But I feel that everything is going to be all right.' 

Mary's eyebrows arched with surprise. So some of the rumors ground through Salem's mill had sprouted from seeds of truth: Rosemary was indeed quite capable of and willing to speak her mind. How did such candor thrive in a community whose women were neither supposed to laugh too loudly nor frown too directly, and from whom the common answer to the question Mary had just asked would have been something akin to, 'Fine, thanks.' 

She studied the girl's face. 'Are you homesick, Rosemary?' 

'In some ways. I miss the quiet places I would go, into the wood or down by the spring. I miss my family. Mostly, I miss Sarah. She was six years younger than me, but we were like sisters. We told each other everything.' 

'Were you close to your family?' 

Rosemary hesitated. Her shoulders rose and descended in a very slow, thoughtful shrug, indicating she wasn't entirely comfortable with the question. 'My parents and my brothers would have laid down their lives for me. 'There is no greater love than this,'' she quoted. 'At least ...' she sighed and stared again at the door ... 'there wasn't until the witch hunt overwhelmed Salem. After that everyone became suspicious of everyone else, and love did not seem to exist anymore. Only my friendship with Sarah survived. Beyond that, I'm not sure I even know what love is.' Rosemary looked at Mary, heart aching and inquisitive. 'Do you?' 

Lady Mary caught the intensity in the girl's eyes and glanced away. 'That's not an easy question to answer. We speak of Love as though it were a solitary item preserved in a tidy package, but it isn't; Love is a society of myriad spirits who awaken the heart in response to different voices. It cannot survive without faith, complete and utter trust in the one who offers it to you, and a forfeit of your own instincts of self-preservation so that you may give it freely in return. That is the extent of my knowledge on the subject.' 

'Different voices ...' 

'Your heart lifts with joy when you speak with Sarah, for she is a dear friend. But that is very different from the way your heart quickens when Hans calls your name and you are possessed of all-consuming desire for your lover.' 

Rosemary blushed scarlet, but could not suppress a little smile. She nodded, and turned her face away. 'I have never met anyone like him. He has protected me, shouldered my burdens as though they were his own, and offered his own life in place of mine. He is so good and gentle to me.' There were tears in Rosemary's eyes. 'I can't imagine being without him now.' 

Mary offered an understanding smile. 'Hans loves you. Perhaps it is enough to know that; perhaps pursuing the whys and wherefores would belittle the both of you. Enjoy your life,' she commanded. 'You can revel in all that is wonderful and good without compromising your convictions of what is right and wrong. You have much to learn about all that is Life, Rosemary, and you won't stop, not until your last breath frees you of your earthly bonds.' 

Rosemary gave a little shudder, and sat quietly for a moment. 'I don't feel sick anymore.' 

Mary smiled. 'The blessings of Immortality: in most cases, healing is immediate, recovery is quick, and death is merely a momentary distraction. You may get sick again until you are accustomed to the feel of ocean travel, but the nausea will soon subside.' 

'Thank you,' Rosemary said, 'for everything. I would like to go up to the deck for some fresh air.' 

She might as well have said, I want to be with Hans. Lady Mary escorted Rosemary to the deck and watched as the young woman prowled to and fro, examining the accoutrements that were ordinary to a ship, but fascinating to one who was unfamiliar with such things. The purser appeared on deck looking more than a little disturbed. He fled to the rail and faced the ocean, drawing air into his lungs as though each breath might be his last. Rosemary addressed him as Lady Mary approached him from his other side. 

'Is all well?' 

The purser nodded rapidly to Rosemary, and to Mary, and to Rosemary again. Perspiration trickled down his face and he scrubbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. 

'You're quite certain nothing is wrong?' Lady Mary probed. 

'Fine, fine.' The purser's voice came in short gasps and he kept nodding, though the effort was slowing. 

'Have you seen my husband?' Rosemary asked. 

'Hold,' the purser gasped. 'T-the hold.' 

Rosemary and Mary exchanged glances, and Rosemary smiled brilliantly with understanding of Hans' intent and of the probable reason for the purser's disconcertion. 

'Well, then,' Rosemary said, 'you can help me until Hans has finished his business there.' 

'H-help you,' the purser's nod became vigorous once more. 

'Yes,' said Rosemary, and took him by a trembling arm. 'I would like a tour of the deck, if you please. I would like for you to explain to me how all this,' she waved at the expansive rigging rising high overhead, 'works.' 

'How it works?' The purser stopped shaking and looked at her as if to laugh. He reined in the reaction when he saw that she was gravely serious. 

'I have never been on a ship like this before,' Rosemary told him, 'or taken a journey this long, and I know little of my husband's business. He will explain everything to me as he has the time, but you can give me a head start right now. For example:' she lifted a belaying pin. 'What is this thing called, and what is it for?' 

As the purser mentally switched gears from sheer terror of the ghastly creature Hans had liberated from the cask, to the odd notion of teaching a woman how to work a ship, Rosemary directed a deliberate gaze at Mary, sliding her eyes toward the hold and back again. 

Lady Mary understood and smiled, gave a little nod and excused herself. She walked away wearing a wide grin. Lady Mary had made a career of speaking her mind and she rarely encountered other people who were willing to communicate as openly. She appreciated others who had the decency to be honest with her, and she was glad Hans Kershner had chosen to sail to England with his young wife. Rosemary had a lot to learn, but she appeared more than up to the challenge. Though Hans was his wife's mentor, Mary could instruct the girl in subjects that he could not, and she was glad for the opportunity. Mary had not tutored a student of her own for many years. 

A glance over her shoulder assured her that the purser had decided to take Rosemary seriously and was already engaged in fulfilling her request as she hung on to his every word, interrupting with an occasional question. 

As Lady Mary knelt by the coaming, she heard voices drifting upward through the hatchway from the hold. One was the deep, cultured voice of Hans Kershner, low and soothing. The high-pitched, eerie tone of the second voice swept her for an instant back to Salem and made her wonder, just for a moment, if perhaps her husband had been correct in his assessment of Doctor Piers Adams. 

§ § § § § 

Opening the door to the cabin, Rosemary's first sight wasn't Hans. A wild man, unkempt and dirty, crouched on the bunk, whispering, 'You want to kill me, but you probably won't succeed.' 

When Hans reached out to continue feeding Piers Adams, the man snapped at him, his teeth clicking together. Hans jerked his hand back, and without hesitation slapped him, rocking his head back on his neck. 

Hans eased away from the man Salem had known as a doctor, and spoke quietly to Rosemary, never taking his eyes off his guest. 'This may take some time. See if Lady Phips will have you for a while longer.' 

Rosemary, stunned, stared at him. 'But ... I could help you.' 

'No. You cannot. He's terribly dangerous right now. He is out of his mind, and if I can keep him here, I can control him until his sanity returns. It was clever of you to deflect the purser--but there's hardly room in here for one person, let alone three.' 

In the brief second that Hans glanced at Rosemary, Methos had launched himself at Hans. Hands clawing, his arms wrapped around Hans' waist, then both of them collapsed against the bulkhead. 'Out! Pull the door to!' 

Through the heavy door, Rosemary heard the sound of another stinging slap, panting, and a growl. 

Rosemary found her way to the deck, her gait adjusting to the ship's motion, and stared into the waters below, foaming along _Damocles'_ side. When her laughter took her by surprise, she stood there, shaking her head, amazed at the turns her life had taken. Here she was, so far from Salem, at sea on her honeymoon. Instead of exploring her husband, she was alone, and he was cooped up with a madman. 

_What if that pitchfork had been stored properly, tines down,_ she wondered. _Would I be helping with the harvest?_ She couldn't imagine what her life might be like as the wife of someone like Hans Kershner, who was not tied to the land. Everything in Salem had been familiar, known. All her future now was beyond guessing. 

§ § § § § § 

'I've never liked the sea, you know. Ever since that trip in the open boat with the monks. I'd thought that was as bad as it could get.' Methos accepted another bottle from Duncan. 

He traced a line down the frosted longneck, licked the water off his index finger, and held it up as if gauging the wind. 'It could have been worse. I could have been in the hold when the hurricane hit.' 

'Quit complaining. It was just your turn in the barrel. All your cellmates died.' Duncan succeeded in ducking before the bottle spun through the air where his head had been, crashing against the wall behind. 

§ § § § § § 

Rosemary was still at the rail when morning dawned brilliantly clear, with only a slight chop to the waves. Idling at the rail, Rosemary and Lady Phips watched the patterns of the ocean, seeing occasional fish and dolphins break the surface. Since they weren't on the bridge, neither had any way of knowing that the weatherglass was dropping, but that information wouldn't have meant much to a daughter of the land, anyway. 

Inside the cabin where Hans and his prisoner were caught, both men registered the pressure change in the backs of their minds. Slowly, like a tide coming in, sanity flowed back into Methos. 

He slouched on the bunk, his elbows on his knees, leaning his head into his hands, and finally, instead of attacking the other man in raging futility, he simply looked up. 'We're in for a blow,' he said, quite lucidly. 

Hans, his haunches against the door, bent to rest his weight on his hands at his knees, narrowed his eyes at the other man, and said, 'It's that time of year. Nasty storms in August.' 

'Do you suppose they might have any small beer aboard? We're not so far out. It would wash down the ship's biscuit. And maybe there's a wash pump for the decks. You occupy the ladies. I'm going to get cleaned up.' 

From his sea trunk, Hans pulled a pair of canvas trousers and a soft shirt, handed them to the erstwhile madman, and went off to find his theoretical wife. The deck didn't heave any more than the shifting sands Hans had been walking on every since he'd found Rosemary. His life had been so settled, so calm these past years. For such a small person, she certainly had upended him. 

§ § § § § § 

Hans closed the door to the cabin and guided Rosemary to the bunk. They sat side by side, touching, and he reached for her hand. 

She tilted her head quizzically, observing him from the corner of her eye. 'Doctor Adams is going to share this cabin with you for the rest of the voyage, isn't he?' 

Hans arranged her small hand atop his much-wider palm. The visual contrast melted to a perfect fit when he entwined his fingers with hers and covered both with his other hand. 

'The Doctor has recovered physically and, I believe, mentally, although I won't rest assured of that until I have observed him for several days. Lady Phips would probably offer to arrange other quarters for him, but it might be best if the Doctor doesn't spend much time in the solitary company of himself for the duration of our crossing.' 

'Perhaps ...' Rosemary bit her bottom lip against requesting an alternate solution. If she and Hans shared the tiny cabin, what then? It would be awkward, at best, to maintain proper respect for one another when she wanted nothing so much as to hear Hans profess his love for her and ask her to be his wife indeed. Enough now that she had to guard her conversation so as to not speak too honestly to him. She cleared her throat and started over. 'Then I will stay with Lady Phips.' 

Rosemary leaned against his shoulder and he turned to take her in his arms. She shut her eyes and relaxed against the broad chest, emitting a soft whimper as Hans' strong arms closed around her. 

The double rap was scarce warning as the door burst open on their intimate embrace. The purser saw them, turned as if to leave, and hesitated to glance into the room again. Hans released Rosemary, but held onto her hand. 

'Yes, what can I do for you?' 

'My apologies,' the purser nodded to Rosemary, 'but the Captain wishes you to be aware of the weather.' 

Hans nodded and stood. 'I had intended to speak with you about that. I will join you on the deck in a moment.' He kissed Rosemary's hand and, as she stood, her cheek. 'I would like for you and Lady Phips to take refuge in her cabin. The next several hours are likely to be an adventure.' 

'I want to help, Hans. Is there nothing I can do but hide quietly away?' 

Rosemary's frown dissolved as Hans lowered his eyes with regret. 'I am sorry, Rosemary. I've taken over your life without much consideration to your thoughts of the matter.' His eyes searched hers, and she trembled under his ardent gaze. 'I pray I haven't taken your feelings too much for granted. Things will be different when we arrive in England and can put Salem and the misfortunes of this voyage behind us. If you will permit me then, I promise I will make all the hardships you've endured since your death fade away 'neath the joys of your future.' 

This time, Hans awaited her response. Breathless at his words, held speechless by the intensity of his expression, Rosemary could but nod. 

Hans smoothed a lock of hair from her face with one hand as the other found the small of her back. He drew her close and kissed her forehead, his lips caressing her brow, descending along her cheekbone to her mouth. Rosemary surrendered to his kiss, long and sweet and slow, submitting to his possession with a fervor of which she had not known herself capable. 

The floor tilted abruptly beneath their feet. Hans held onto Rosemary until the ship leveled itself, then reluctantly let her go and backed toward the door. 'It would appear our weather has arrived. I'm going up to speak with the purser and to locate Doctor Adams. You go ahead to Lady Phips' cabin.' He hesitated, enveloping her in his gaze, and offered a gentle smile. 'I will see you after the storm.' 

Lady Phips looked up with surprise when her door opened without the courtesy of a knock. Rosemary wandered in, closed the door, and perched cautiously on the chair that sat before Lady Phips' tiny desk. 

'I'm glad you're here,' Lady Phips said. 'I met Hans on the steps and he suggested that we keep to the safety of our cabin for the duration of the storm. I had already received the same advice from the captain and the purser. I was about to get worried for you. Are you all right, child? Have you fallen ill again?' 

'No,' Rosemary said. She sat quietly for a moment, smiling faintly at nothing in particular. Her expression changed to fear when the floor unexpectedly tilted at such an angle that Rosemary and her chair slid across the room. 

'We'd best sit on the bunk,' Lady Phips told her, 'and settle in for a long night. We'll tell each other stories to keep our minds occupied. You can share whatever you'd like about your life in Salem, and I'll tell you about my lifetime, and a few things you can expect to experience in yours.' 

Rosemary joined Lady Phips on the bunk and they faced each other, bracing themselves as best they could against the wall. 

'I wonder what it's like up on deck,' Rosemary said. 'I've never seen a storm at sea.' 

'And it's best you don't now,' Lady Phips replied. 'Wind makes the water terribly dangerous. The best we can hope is to ride it out safely down here. Now, who goes first? Why don't I start by telling you a little about my own history?' 

'I'd like that,' Rosemary answered, but all her senses were focused toward the door, awaiting the assurance that Hans was passing by on his way to the other cabin with Doctor Adams. 

'Where shall I begin?' Lady Phips asked of the lamp that swung to and fro from the ceiling. 

She stared at it for so long that Rosemary prompted her with a question. 'How old are you?' 

'More than four hundred years. But that, my dear, is question you ought never ask.' 

Rosemary dipped her head and folded her hands in her lap. 'Forgive me, Lady Phips.' 

'You didn't offend me, Rosemary,' she said. Her smile showed reassuring in the moments the lamp swayed forward to light her face. 'You place yourself at a disadvantage if you ask that question.' 

Rosemary's eyebrows lifted in surprise. 'How?' 

'When you know the age of another Immortal, you begin to form an idea of him. If he says he's very old, you might be afraid to fight him. If he says he's very young, you might fight overconfidently and be killed.' 

The swing of the lamp grew more irregular, and the wind moaned through the timbers of the ship. Rosemary and Lady Phips looked toward the cabin door, and Rosemary's white-knuckled hands, which were still clasped in her lap, relaxed, as the two women felt the presence of two Immortal men pass them on their way astern to their own cabin. 

'Is there no way for us to live but by fighting?' Rosemary asked. 

Lady Phips sighed. 'That question is best answered by your teacher.' 

'Why?' 

'Did no one in Salem tell you, Rosemary, that you ask a great many questions?' 

'I didn't ask so many in Salem.' 

'Hans is an honorable man. He will no doubt teach you to use a sword. What he perhaps has not told you is that there are other ways for the gentler sex to survive.' 

'Holy Ground?' Rosemary asked. 

Lady Phips turned her eyes so that they were shadowed from the lamp's wide arc. 'Churches and convents can be burned, Rosemary, have been burned many times in history. And if you run from them, you're unprotected. No, I did not speak of Holy Ground.' 

She turned to face Rosemary again, pressed her lips together for a moment, and spoke again. 'Some will call this dishonorable, but you ought to know that those of us who are at a disadvantage in strength can use other means. Mortal and Immortal men alike are prone to underestimate women; both lose their senses when met with the feminine graces; both are susceptible to poisons and strong drink, at least long enough to return the advantage to us.' 

Rosemary's eyes were wide, and her mouth had dropped open. 

Footsteps sounded past their door. On the return trip, there was the sound of more feet and a warning sensation that led Rosemary and Mary Phips to look at the door even before the knock came. 

'Hans, Doctor Adams,' Lady Phips said in greeting. 

Hans stepped into the room and took Rosemary's hands in his. 'We're going above to help if we can.' 

Rosemary started to speak, but he silenced her by laying gentle fingers across her lips. 'The difference between life and death is often a slight one. The strength of two additional men hauling line or holding the wheel might be the difference that is needed tonight.' 

Lady Phips drew her shoulders back and sat in as dignified a position as she could manage in the bunk. 'Doctor Adams?' 

He gave her an enigmatic, mirthless smile. 'I'm told that you were my salvation, Lady Phips. And the instrument of my torture as well.' 

Hans cleared his throat, stepped in front of the doctor, and asked Lady Phips and Rosemary, 'What were you two talking about?' 

Lady Phips relaxed. 'We were discussing the rules of our kind.' 

'Would you like a rule?' the doctor asked, craning his head around Hans' shoulder to look at Rosemary. 'Never waste your time meddling in the affairs of mortals. You cannot save them for long; they all die anyway.' 

Rosemary shrank back from the bitterness in his voice. Footsteps drew their attention to the door again, and one of the ship's men announced that the captain sent his compliments to Lady Phips and asked that all lamps be extinguished until the storm had passed. The two Immortal men followed him to the deck. 

Lady Phips put out the lamp. In the darkness, the heaving of the deck seemed greater, more shrieking of the wind malevolent. The two women huddled together in the bunk. 

'Rosemary, if the ship should sink, it is imperative that we abandon it. Do not waste time looking for me or for Hans. It's better to be awash in the ocean ... ' she left the rest of her sentence unfinished. 

Rosemary began to shake. 'Otherwise, I would spend eternity trapped in this cabin, trapped as Doctor Adams was.' 

Lady Phips hugged her closer in the dark. 'Don't think about it, my dear.' 

The ship rose underneath them, long and slow and steady, and then dropped away with terrifying suddenness. Rosemary whimpered and muttered a prayer. 'What if I never see Hans again?' 

Lady Phips rubbed Rosemary's arm. 'Don't think about it. Dear, let me tell you about my third husband, John. He was a juggler, and we went with his troupe of players from fair to fair all summer long, and sought the protection of a lord's castle every winter.' 

Rosemary buried her face against Lady Phips' bosom and tried to hear her story over the raging storm. 

§ § § § § 

Every square inch of sail was tightly reefed and still _Damocles_ was close to being scoured of her rigging. Gray-green water sluiced over the decks, draining through the scuppers back into the heaving sea. Now that Dr. Adams wasn't in the hold, Piers and Hans were grateful for the careful competence that had packed her so that nothing was shifting, and the water that came in through the seams was thus far less than the manned pumps could handle: the ship didn't have that leaden feel of being unable to rise to the waves, of being simply driven under. 

Since they didn't know the ropes on the ship, their strength was most useful on one of the two-man pumps. They seesawed the handle up and down, each with his own thoughts, conversation being impossible anyhow. 

An occasional word could be heard as the crew screamed over the howl of the wind, and the first time the old name came up, the two men on the pump stared at each other, not pausing in the rhythm of their labor. 

Jonah. 

If anyone aboard qualified, it would be the man who had come aboard in a cask. If the storm worsened enough, they both knew, there would be a concerted attempt to appease the sea. Where they stood by the sounding well, there was no room to really fight, but they could withstand attack for a while. 

In order to get at them, someone would have to pull the batten pegs and risk losing the hatch cover in the storm, perhaps allowing water that flooded the decks to surge below. They might be safe, not for ethical reasons, but for the most pragmatic: opening the hatch could doom _Damocles._ Only if someone already belowdecks made the charge or the officers lost control of the crew, would it come to pass. 

How much of the hysteria that had infected Salem had come aboard when she had docked there? Hans could hear in his mind the verse: _But the Lord sent out a great wind into the sea, and there was a mighty tempest in the sea, so that the ship was like to be broken._

Push down, let the other man's push raise the handle, push down again. Back and forth, Hans and Piers repeated the action, fighting to stand on the slippery boards, each stroke forcing a few gallons of the seawater back outside the hull. Their only light was faint, greenish, from a prism set into the boards overhead to transfer daylight belowdecks. 

If the crew came for Piers, could they make a stand here? Could they talk their way out of having him offered as sacrifice? Somebody ought to be relieving them on the pumps soon; an hour of the punishing labor was the usual term. 

'We've lost five men, swept overboard,' the purser yelled when he and another crewmember came to relieve. 'How came you to be in that cask?' 

'It was thought that he'd died. Dr. Adams wanted to be buried in England.' Hans screamed the words into the purser's ear, sliding aside to let him get to his end of the pump handle. 

'Died how?' 

'Stopped breathing. But it's a family thing. They didn't know.' Piers Adams looked into the purser's eyes with his most confident smile, lost his footing, and fell hard. The transfer had been made to the new pair operating the pump with no slacking in the rhythm, and Hans lay down beside his partner to get what rest he could before they took it over again. 

_Five men lost,_ they both thought. _That's why the purser is here on the pump._ A storm on the sea of Galilee, or even the Mediterranean, might be pretty bad, but probably not like an Atlantic storm. This could get very bad. 

But it wasn't getting worse. In fact, things were getting better, pretty fast. The wind was dropping, the monotonous deep thrum of the rigging had eased, and although the sea was still rough, it was nothing like just before the change on the pump. 

Overhead, someone was knocking out the wedges that battened down the hatches, and when the dripping hatch cover was lifted, they were able to climb onto a deck still wet, shimmering in bright sunlight as mist rose from it. It was still necessary to have something to hang on to, staggering from one good hold to the next, but it was now at least safe to be on deck. 

'If they come after you, I'll remind them that in the Bible, the crew jettisoned all their cargo before they cast lots and chose Jonah. Don't volunteer. Whatever you do, don't volunteer. I'm going to go talk to the women.' 

§ § § § § § 

Piers Adams looked at Hans caroming from one handle to another, headed down the deck toward the prow of the ship. Volunteer? Him? He'd crawl into the farthest reaches of the hold, wedge himself in among the cargo. Then the idea of the ship simply capsizing hit him, and that notion lost its charm. 

Shortly after Hans brought the women up on deck, an outlook from the mainmast called down, 'Clouds ahead!' The sunshine and mild breeze were only a respite, then. There was more storm to come. 

There was time to eat cold boiled salt beef and a little ship's biscuit, but they could see the next phase of the storm coming toward them. The purser, relieved on the pump, zigzagged his way to the rail where the passengers stood, eating. His voice was high, angry, nothing like the pleasant baritone that had instructed Rosemary in ship's rigging just the night before. ' _Tell us, we pray thee, for whose cause this evil is upon us, What is thine occupation? and whence comest thou? What is thy country? And of what people art thou?_ ' 

The oldest Immortal stared at the purser, formerly a stolid, able man whose fear now made his voice shake. _Your guess is as good as mine. Nineveh came to grief without me, but it could well have been my handiwork. We were in the neighborhood, me and mine. But that was a long time ago._

'I am a doctor,' Methos began. 

'A number of years ago, I sailed from England to New Netherland with a very ill friend who wished to be reunited with his family; they had crossed ahead of him. He was frightened to make the voyage alone in his stricken condition and, as I also desired to see this new world, I accompanied him. I saw him through his sickness and escorted him safely to his kin. Since then I have traveled between the port cities, offering my services wherever they were most needed.' 

The purser's eyes narrowed with suspicion. 'I was only a wee babe when New Netherland was taken by the British and renamed for its Lord Proprietor, nearly thirty years ago.' 

'New York, yes,' Doctor Adams corrected himself, his heart skipping at the careless error. 'My apologies. My friend and his family were Dutch; they always used the old name.' He swallowed hard and continued, trying to establish the captive aura of a storyteller. 

'My own family has for generations been afflicted with the malady of apnea. The onset of apnea while a person sleeps makes it appear as though the victim has died when, in fact, breathing is only temporarily suspended. I had been ill for several days.' He spoke carefully, weaving the lie one word at a time, committing it to his own memory and to that of his Immortal companions, and hoping desperately the truth would not interfere again. 'One morning I was discovered on my pallet, stilled by apnea. Because of my previous illness, it was assumed that I had died in the night. It was an honest mistake.' Doctor Adams addressed the purser squarely to his face, hoping he appeared as confident as he managed to sound. 'It was common knowledge that I hailed from England and desired to return. My well-meaning but ignorant friends apparently sealed me in a cask and saw me aboard the ship with intent that my remains be laid to rest alongside the graves of my fathers. When I regained consciousness inside the barrel, I was quite naturally frightened out of my wits. Certainly you can understand that,' the Doctor said, his eyes direct, his voice neutral. 

By now a number of sailors had accumulated behind the purser. 'You speak to spirits,' one accused, and Hans recognized him as the man who had first heard Piers' voice in the hold and fled what he was certain were the incantations of a devil. 'You commune with the otherworld in languages no man has heard.' 

Doctor Adams' stomach cramped uncomfortably around the precious little food he had eaten before the confrontation. As he tried to formulate an argument to refute the sailor's allegations, Hans spoke in his behalf. He addressed the sailor directly, but his words were intended to flay them all. 

'And how, pray tell, could you have identified his words as a language no man has heard? Have you traveled so extensively that you are familiar with all the tongues of the world? Or perhaps you are yourself possessed of a devil that wishes to see other men die? From whence do _you_ come? Perhaps we have one of Salem's witches among us. Why else would you mindlessly hold an ordinary man responsible for such things as the wind and the waves, which are far beyond control of the mortal hand, were you not yourself possessed of some malicious demon?' 

The knot of sailors behind the purser loosened until daylight could be seen between the men as furtive glances of suspicion and fear darted back and forth amidst the crew. Hans stole a look at Piers. Both knew the risk they were running, but better that they be abandoned aboard a crewless _Damocles_ two days at sea than be fed to the ocean through the mouth of the storm. 

The purser felt his strength fading and pointed a finger desperately at Hans Kershner. 'You must also be one of them,' he stammered, 'to be so educated on the subject of which Doctor Adams stands accused.' 

The sailors perked up and drew together once more, nodding and murmuring their assent. Doctor Adams felt his heart sink as though to plummet straight through his roiling bowels. Hans had asserted the obvious before on behalf of his wife, and earned a death sentence to be awaited in Salem's jail. This time there was no jail, and no room on a ship operated by a superstitious crew for those believed guilty of consorting with spirits. The deck was the courtroom, the sailors were the judges, and the purser would be the executor of their verdict. 

The trial was being held right now. At the moment, the tide was most definitely moving against the defendants. As if to challenge his assumption that things could not, at the moment, be worse, Rosemary threw the remains of her meal at the purser's feet and moved to stand between Hans and Piers. 

'Stop this, all of you!' Her voice was strained with apprehension. 'Is the Devil known for saving life, or for destroying man wherever he might find an opportunity? Is the Devil known for sense and reason, or for promoting fear and confusion? Judge betwixt yourself and me, master purser, and show me solid, indisputable evidence of the charges you have made. If you can't do that, return to your duties and let us work together to survive the storm that is yet to come!' 

Hans had taken her by the arms, given her a little shake, and spoken an order into her ear, only to find his authority overridden by her thoughtless anxiety. 

'Rosemary, no!' he said as she finished, and she pulled away, eyes bright with fear and unbridled fury. 

'No, indeed!' she snapped, at Hans and at the purser, who took a step backward as she turned on him, determined to disabuse the crew of their gross misconceptions. 'There has been enough nonsense, enough superstition, enough death at the hands of ignorant accusers who know nothing but to hold innocent people responsible for their irrational fears! Indeed you do belong in Salem, all of you, for you show no more sense than they. If you believe us guilty of any thing, then prove your allegations. Prove them beyond the shadow of any doubt. Since you are not able to do that, let us work in unity that we might all survive the storm.' 

The purser and his cowering cluster of sailors were silent and tense, waiting for someone to move. 

The ship gave an alarming lurch, and several of the sailors cried out. Hans maneuvered himself in front of Rosemary and spoke to the purser, loud enough for all to hear. 'Let us return the women to their cabin, and the Doctor and I will resume our duties at the pump.' 

He turned to take Rosemary by the arm, but the purser stopped him. 'I think not, Mister Kershner ... Doctor Adams,' he said. The sailors slowly surrounded the trio backed against the rail. 

Off to the side, silent and momentarily forgotten, Lady Mary Phips pressed her hands to her mouth and tried desperately to think of a way to stop the crew from carrying out their dreadful intent. Then the ship lurched again, the sailors cried out in terror, and Lady Phips lost her footing as water cascaded over the deck. 

**Present Day**

The lights in the dojo were off, and the closed sign was posted. Take-out containers from a Thai restaurant were stacked, empty, in the corner of the desk in Duncan's office. Methos' feet were propped on another corner. Duncan sat in his chair, tapping intermittently at his laptop, open to a spreadsheet program. Dinner conversation had dwindled to silence, so the tapping of computer keys was interrupted only by the sounds of thunder from outside the building. 

Amanda burst through the double door of the dojo, spied the low light on in the office, and headed there. 

'You look like a ... ' Duncan began. He reconsidered and started again. 'You're all wet.' 

'It started so suddenly, and I didn't have an umbrella.' 

She walked behind Duncan's desk and leaned over his laptop. Annoyed, he shielded the machine from her dripping form and closed it. She pouted a little at him and stripped off her drenched jacket, then reached in the inside pocked to take a damp, folded piece of paper. 

As she was smoothing the paper open on his desk, she smiled at him, tilting her chin down and looking at him from the corners of her eyes. 'Do I have a business opportunity for you!' 

Duncan looked at Methos helplessly. Methos smiled back, folded his hands across his stomach, and waited. 

'Ads for the company's playbill. Here's the price list.' She passed the paper to him for his inspection. 'The prices start for a quarter-page ad, but I thought the dojo deserved a full page, don't you agree?' 

Duncan dropped the limp paper on his desk. 'Amanda, those prices are outrageous. Where do they think they are, New York? London?' A flash of lightning and a crash of thunder, far too close for comfort, punctuated his question. 

She wheeled his chair away from the desk and settled herself on his lap, wheedling, 'But we have expenses, Duncan. So many townspeople to make costumes for, all that lighting. Think of yourself as a patron of the arts.' She traced the line from his lower lip to his chin with her index finger time and again as she spoke. 'Besides, I'd be very grateful.' 

Methos scooped up the paper. 'And I'll bet she does 'grateful' very, very well, MacLeod.' 

Duncan tilted his head from side to side, considering. 

'I'll take a full page,' Methos announced, his smile gone. He stood and stretched. 

Surprised, Amanda turned from Duncan but left her finger on his chin. 'Thank you, Methos. What copy do you want in your ad?' 

He gave her a tight smile that vanished in an instant. 'I'll get back to you on that.' 

Amanda turned back to the business of convincing Duncan. Methos stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and headed toward the door. 'I'd stay and watch, but that's Dawson's job.' 

'Take my umbrella!' Duncan called after him, but he waved the offer away with one hand. 

Duncan followed Methos' progress through the double doors with his eyes, a worried furrow between his brows. 'That was too easy.' 

He wrapped his hand around Amanda's wrist and took her with him as he locked up the dojo, going through the steps in an absent, mechanical fashion. When he turned the key for the elevator, he said again, 'That was too easy, wasn't it?' 

'Well, yeah, it was, now that you mention it. I didn't expect him to buy even a one-line patron spot on the last page,' Amanda said, fiddling with the top button on Duncan's shirt. 'And your point is ... ?' 

The elevator lurched up. 'You do, now and then, feel guilt, don't you, Amanda?' 

She stopped unbuttoning Duncan's shirt and stepped back. 'Of course I do.' 

'Guilt over things we've done, things we've left undone, things we've said, people we've hurt.' He slid the door of the elevator up and walked into the loft, turning on lights as he went. He opened the door to the liquor cabinet, then shut it quickly and went to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. 'Survivor guilt--that's the worst.' 

'It slips between the chinks of your armor, builds up slowly, takes you unaware.' 

Duncan crossed the room and sat on the couch. 'Methos says he hasn't experienced guilt since the twelfth century, but I'm not sure I believe him.' 

'I know you're worried about him, but you can't fix this, MacLeod. He'll have to live with it. We all have to live with it.' She followed him to the couch, patted and squeezed the back of his hand. 

Duncan put his other hand on top of hers and gave her a sad, encouraging smile. 

Amanda sighed and put her head on Duncan's shoulder. 'I wonder if he'll be able to sleep tonight.' 

**1692**

When the decks had been cleared before the storm, everything that might be used for a rescue had been stowed below. Only the single hatch cover removed to let the people below up onto the deck remained as something, which could float to help keep someone alive. 

'Call the ship's carpenter!' Hans' voice was a roar, above the rising storm. He and Adams heaved the turtlebacked cover over the rail where Mary Phips had disappeared. Looking back at Hans, Adams shrugged, and followed it. 

'That's one down,' the purser snarled, and reached toward Hans. The kick that met him was low, hard, and probably eliminated him from fatherhood, Hans knew grimly. Coldly, he watched the man writhing on the deck. 

He looked at the other men. 'Are you all crazy? That's the wife of the governor of Massachusetts colony, the wife of the owner of this ship. Let her drown, and you'll never get a berth on a Boston ship again.' He watched them break. There wasn't much time before the next part of the storm hit. 

A throwing line arrived, but it was almost too short to reach the bobbing hatch cover with the two clinging to it in desperation. It would rise to a wave, drop into the trough, and the timing needed to make a toss or catch was tricky. 

Presenting its larger side to the wind, the ship was being pushed ever farther away from the cover. Finally a lucky wave picked it up to the level of the deck, and Adams was able to snatch the rope out of the air. He tied it around the cover as they were hauled in toward the side. 

The seas were getting wilder as more ropes were dropped to pull them aboard. There was no way to fend themselves away from the side as they were drawn up. The dull thuds they made, hitting the side as the ship rolled, could be heard even above the wind. 

They were practically thrown down the passageway, a new cover was fitted to the hatch, and the men who drove it home retreated to the bridge, dragging the purser with them. 

Hans considered the heaps of wet human lying on the planks. 'How long will it take you to get rid of the seawater?' Hans offered neither sympathy to the vomiting Adams, nor comment on his bravery. 'We have to get back on that pump.' 

The other man nodded, ratcheted himself to his hands and knees, and followed Hans to the pump. 

'You'll be lucky if they don't charge you with mutiny, you know,' he muttered. 

'I'm not a crew member. Yet. But if they really did lose five, they might decide to convert me.' 

'You could work your passage, you know.' They sidled in to relieve the men, and took over the task. 

§ § § § § 

Mary Phips lay with her head in Rosemary's lap. She had finally rid herself of the seawater she'd swallowed. 

'I should be dead, drowned several times over. After a while, I wanted to die. It was terrifying. I can't believe I'm back on board.' 

The following night, the sky cleared enough to get readings for the navigator. The storm had nearly killed them, but it had pushed them further along toward England than they had any right to be, so soon in the voyage. Doubtless the purser would be happy, but probably not dancing any hornpipes for a while, Rosemary thought. 

The suddenness of Hans' reaction to the threat had stunned her. She wondered just how he had learned to do such a thing. When he had told her about killing or being killed, it had no real meaning for her. She'd seen executions, but the violence in them was mostly implicit: the power of the state against the accused. 

There had been nothing implicit about that kick. It had been the raw fury of a man threatened one too many times, in an already perilous setting. Rosemary found herself wondering about the man she had thought so gentle, so kind. 

There was at least one more facet to him, a side she hoped never to see again. She stroked Mary Phips soothingly, hearing in her mind the ugly grunt of the purser as he dropped. Mary Phips and Piers Adams were lucky to be alive, no doubt about it, but so was the purser. 

**Present Day**

_Never is a really long time ..._

Tell them the truth, Doctor Polidori! Tell them I have been faithful... 

There are things worse than death, Doctor ... 

So who judges me? 

Poor, tormented creature ... 

**Remember ...**

'I _can't_ remember!' he raged, sitting upright in the bed. 'Believe me, I've tried. I can't,' he panted, staring wildly at walls that moments before had admitted wraiths and voices of long-dead accusers who closed in around him, strapped the leather harness once more about his chest, twisted the axe handle until his ribs splintered under the force, piercing his lungs. He tasted blood, his own blood, and abandoned the bed, gagging, for the questionable comfort of the bathroom floor. 

'I remember that,' he half whispered, half whimpered against the apathetic tile. 

_Tell them the truth, Doctor!_

'What truth? Who are you? Tell me who you are and what it is I'm supposed to remember!' 

He wasn't sleeping now, yet even with his eyes closed, face pressed against the tile, fist knotted into the pile of the rug, they came for him. The judges strapped him helpless in the dark of night. Stoughton ordered each twist of the handle while Mather stood aside, intoning his sentence with a sinister voice, his eyes closed against the slaughter taking place before him. 

_And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him._

'I'm not the Devil. They weren't my angels,' he protested, in breathless agony. 'They were innocent women and men who didn't deserve to die. They didn't kill your cattle or stunt the growth of your crops or shut up your sky and your womb. They didn't afflict anyone with seizures. They died because the over-active imaginations of your children provided an outlet for your political avarice! Using God as an excuse will never make that right. 'Who hath ears to hear, let him hear!'' 

_And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever._

'Well, you got the torment part right,' he addressed the shade. 'Aaaaagh,' he gasped, as his torso seemed to cave in of its own accord. He opened his eyes wide, forcing the scene away. Breathing deeply, staring at the base of the cabinet below the sink, he tried to concentrate on reality. 

'I need to do some housecleaning.' He addressed the baseboard quite frankly. 'Just look at all the dust and lint down here. Cobwebs, too. I'd be embarrassed for a guest to see that.' 

He sat up slowly, glimpsing death in the darkness, wincing at crazed hours spent folded in a black, airless cask rocking with the movement of the ocean, so deformed in the barrel that his body could not heal properly, despite the countless, excruciating attempts that plunged him time and again through the maw of death. He propped dizzily against the corner and stared at the blinding white fixtures, keeping his eyes open despite the nausea that nagged them to close. 

'I don't know who you are,' he addressed the leader. There had to be a leader, a solitary revenant leading the attack. 'You're going to have to help me out here. Give me a hint; a clue, something by which I can identify you.' 

It was a woman. He accepted that suddenly, though subliminally he had known it all along. Immediately he thought of a specific woman, one who above all others had tremendous aught against him, but that wasn't right; it wasn't her, though her voice occasionally called out from the legion of others. 

Who, then? 

_Tell them the truth, Doctor! Tell them I have been faithful..._

'Tell who, what truth? Faithful about what?' 

**_Remember ..._**

'Remember what? What have I done?' He wanted to yell, but lacked the energy. He sat still instead, channeling what strength he did possess into picking gently at the layers of his own history, looking for a thread to pull that would unravel the whole bloody mystery and free him of its bondage. 

It started with Salem. It did not, however, end there. Try as he might, Methos could not locate other memories that might complete the puzzle and tell him exactly when and where his nightmare had concluded. 

The notion slammed brutally into him from within and without, that perhaps it had never ended at all and he was still a part of it, unawares. 

§ § § § § 

**August 1692**

The next day was clear, with a startlingly blue sky and the promise that the _Damocles_ would soon see harbor. The long swells of the sea and the industry of the ship's men repairing rigging and sails were reminders of the storm that had passed. 

There was another reminder as well, a memorial service for the men swept over the rails. The captain read the service from a small leather book, finishing with a Psalm. While the others stood mute, Rosemary silently mouthed the Psalm along with the captain. Long after the others had dispersed, she stood in place, staring at the ocean. Hans kept her quiet company during her vigil. 

Lady Phips begged the captain's ear after the ceremony and, hooking her arm through his elbow, accompanied him to his cabin. When she emerged long minutes later, she had a spring to her step and a broad grin on her face. She approached Rosemary, dismissed Hans--it took several good-natured threats to convince him to leave her side--and took the girl below. 

'We're to have dinner with the captain tonight. You and I, Hans and Piers,' Lady Phips said, bustling around the cabin, gathering Rosemary's things. 

Rosemary watched her industrious, brisk movements. 

'Child, be of good cheer! I've spoken to the captain.' Lady Phips waited for Rosemary to reach the obvious conclusion. 

She waved Rosemary's things in her hand, raising her eyebrows and waiting for the girl to fit together the pieces in the puzzle presented to her. Exasperated and brimming with excitement, she revealed the answer. 

'You can move your things to your own cabin.' 

Rosemary stared dully at Lady Phips. 

'Your and your husband's cabin,' she said insinuatingly. 

At this, Rosemary registered comprehension, then anxiety. 

'We can't,' Rosemary protested. 'Doctor Adams ... ' 

'Doctor Adams will have the purser's bunk. The captain told me how Hans ... persuaded the purser to reason after I had gone overboard, but he feels his man needs an even sterner punishment. Master Purser will bunk with the common seamen for the remainder of the trip. Mind you, if I weren't married to Mr. Phips, I might give Doctor Adams a bunk in this cabin.' She smiled wickedly. 

Rosemary sat on the bunk, drew her knees up, and wrapped her arms across herself, rocking like a child. Lady Phips stopped collecting Rosemary's things and sat next to her. 

When Rosemary spoke, it was in a whisper. 'You didn't see him. I did. He hurt the purser so badly. And he could have done more; I could see it in his eyes.' She turned to Lady Phips and began to cry. 'How can I be married to him? I don't even know him!' 

Lady Phips put one arm around Rosemary and with the other stroked her hair. She rocked her and let her cry. 

'It takes many years to come to know someone well,' she said. 'You mustn't be shocked that you don't know Hans yet. Were you frightened that he hurt the purser? The world is a violent place. Salem taught you that lesson. For Immortals, the world is more violent still. An Immortal who is not capable of violence is not capable of defending himself--or his young bride. Don't be afraid of men like Hans who have strength and know to use it wisely.' 

Rosemary hiccupped. Lady Phips took a handkerchief and helped her dry her eyes and blow her nose. 

'I've known men like Hans,' Lady Phips said. 'You need never fear him, Rosemary. He will never hurt you.' 

Rosemary leaned across to the tiny desk, picked up the fine silver brush and comb that Hans had bought her in Boston, slid them into their velvet case, then rolled and tied it decisively. Lady Phips took the comb case and packed it into Rosemary's bag, then hugged the girl. 

The hours until dinner passed alternately too quickly and too slowly for Rosemary. The only girl in her family, she was used to spending her days in perpetual motion, going from weeding to cooking, spinning to weaving, the hundred chores that kept her family alive. On the _Damocles_ , however, she had little to do. She shyly avoided Hans, who was helping with repairs. She avoided Lady Phips, too, who hinted broadly and sometimes indelicately about how happy she was that the Kershners would soon be able to resume their honeymoon. Rosemary walked the deck from one end to the other, watched the men stitching a torn sail as neatly as any woman could, hung over the railing to look for fish, scanned the skies for clouds and seabirds. She was surprised to find the sun settling low on the horizon, and her stomach fluttered enough that she wondered if she was seasick again. 

Dinner was better than it ought to have been at sea. The captain was solicitous of Lady Phips and peppered the conversation with tidbits of news that the Governor might find pleasing. Rosemary listened, wide-eyed, as the captain and Hans spun tales--some of them quite tall tales--of the sea. Lady Phips laughed openly at their stories; Doctor Adams sat quietly, a bemused expression on his face. 

The captain poured brandy for all and Rosemary was too polite to decline it, although she'd never tasted it before. Hans finished his by sips as he told a harrowing story of meeting privateers, and he wielded his rich baritone voice as skillfully as his sword, speaking first softly and then loudly, his words rising and falling like the swells of the open ocean. 

When the captain served him a second brandy, Hans noticed Rosemary's untouched glass and encouraged her to drink. She sipped and coughed, and he patted her on the back, leaving his hand to linger there as he launched into another story. 

Lady Phips called an abrupt end to the evening, complaining of extreme fatigue, and asked Doctor Adams to accompany her. She stopped on the way to whisper something to Rosemary, and bid a good night to the captain and Hans. 

Hans held out his hand, and Rosemary got to her feet and followed him in silence to their cabin. He closed the door and lit a lamp. Rosemary stood on the tip of her toes and kissed him on the cheek. Hans took her by the shoulders and bent down to kiss her cheek. Rosemary kissed his cheek again, and Hans turned his head so that their lips were close but did not touch. 

Slowly, Rosemary brushed her lips to his once, then twice. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. Breathless and hungry, she pressed herself to him, tasting him, smelling the salt air on his skin. 

Hans ran his hands down her shoulders, along her arms, and took her by the hands. Kissing each one by turn, he stepped back from her. 

'Good night, Rosemary,' he said, and began to arrange blankets to form a pallet on the floor. 

'No,' Rosemary said. She knelt on the floor and folded the blankets up, placing them on a stool. She took Hans' hand and stood, walking backward to the bunk, drawing him with her. 

'Are you certain?' he asked. 

In response, she reached for the laces of her bodice. Hands trembling, she fumbled the ribbons, pulling too hard and forming a knot. Hans gently moved her hands aside and worked the knot free, then loosened the ribbons on her bodice, spreading it open and sliding his hands beneath. 

He kissed her again and slid her dress down over her hips. Smiling, he unbuttoned his vest and his breeches. He draped them and his shirt over the stool and when he turned back, Rosemary lay in the bunk. 

He leaned over her and kissed her throat, her chin, her mouth. She did not respond but remained still, eyes squeezed closed. He cupped one breast, heard her swallow hard. 

'Rosemary?' 

She heard a rustling noise and opened her eyes. She was surprised to find him sitting at the far end of the bunk. 

'What have they told you about the marriage bed?' 

Her voice was small and quiet. 'They say to submit to make it less fearsome.' 

He sighed and rubbed his hand across his mouth and beard. 'Rosemary, it need not be a fearsome thing. The same pleasure you felt standing by the door in my arms you can feel here.' 

Another sigh, this one filled with regret and resignation, and he leaned over to pat her cheek, then reached for his shirt and shrugged it over his shoulders. 

Her voice caught in her throat, and she sat up. Eyes pleading, she awkwardly pushed and pulled his shirt over his head, then kissed him. He lowered her to the bunk and lay beside her. She placed her hand against his chest, burying her fingers in the dark hair. He nodded encouragement as her hand ran along his strong shoulders and arms, squeezing her hand when her fingers met his. 

He kissed her softly at first, and then with growing passion. His hand brushed over her breast, then along her waist and hip. He nudged her legs apart, and her hand trailed along his arm to his hand. He stopped, waiting to see if her she would push his hand away from her leg, but instead her hand slid back up his arm, to his shoulder and neck, and she pulled his mouth to hers. 

'Truly, 'tis not a fearsome thing. Sarah was wrong,' Rosemary whispered. 

Hans kissed her again and slowly, gently joined his body to hers. Rosemary wrapped her arms around him and surrendered herself, body and soul, to her husband. 

After, when the lamp had gone out and Rosemary rested with her head against Hans' chest, his heart pounding, the long bellows sound of air in his lungs, she felt more than heard his question. 'What did Lady Phips say to you when we left dinner?' 

Rosemary answered, hearing her own voice vibrate through Hans' chest. 'She said that she expected to be invited to help us celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of our wedding.' 

§ § § § § 

Hans Kershner was a patient man, and observant. Rosemary wasn't still afraid of the marriage bed, but carried all the baggage of her upbringing, and Hans preferred a different attitude on this subject. 

Slowly, silkily, he set himself to tease her into awareness of him, as a stallion teases a mare. He would accidentally brush against her, as if the motion of the ship made him lose his footing: Hans, who was perfectly capable of dueling on the shifting deck, was suddenly possessed of somewhat less than adequate balance. He tweaked her clothes, brushed imaginary lint off her shoulders, tucked stray locks of hair back into her bonnet, and always watched her. 

When she looked at him now, the pupils of her eyes were huge, almost eclipsing the blue of the iris. He heard the sudden intake of breath when he touched her, however lightly, and goose bumps would rise on her forearms. The sailors on _Damocles_ were aware of his protracted seduction, and when the bosun looked at Rosemary with surmise, he met the cold stare of a killer in Hans' eyes. No man aboard, after that, considered that she might be worth a try. 

Late summer nights at sea were magic, and they were not wasted on Rosemary. On clear nights, the heavens were jeweled, and this time, when she stood at the rail she leaned back against Hans. Steady and solid, his own hands covered hers on the rail, and his breath was warm on her ear as he named the stars. 'See the dipper, there?' 

He lifted his hand, let her sight along his arm as he traced the stars of Ursa Major, and then showed her Polaris, the pole star, the navigator's friend. Ursa Minor, the Little Bear, he outlined for her, then the broad band of the Milky Way, arching high. As they spent the hours looking, Venus crept along, not a star at all, but a neighbor. 

He could have taken her to the cabin long ago, but this time wasn't wasted: he thought of it as an investment in the future, an awakening of her drives that would serve them both well. 

By the time the sixth bell past midnight had rung, her answers were beginning to sound sleepy, her head lolling against his chest. When they got into the cabin, the cool air from the open port made it almost as comfortable as being on deck. As Hans began to undress in the dark, he ran into her hands, helping him along. He let her undo the various laces and fastenings, slip off his clothes, and finally just stood there, legs slightly apart, shifting easily with the motion of the ship. 

Her hands on him were light, tickling, and he shuddered a little at her touch. Startled, she drew back, but he caught her hands and put them on himself again. She examined him as if he were a statue, a David, running her fingers along the ridges of muscles, turning over his hands to feel the calluses, and he heard her laugh a little, softly. 

He began to think that he should have kept his shirt to hang back over a shoulder with careless fingers, when her hands dropped to his waist. Too bad about the fig leaf, he thought, grinning into the darkness, I guess she's going to find out. 

They slept in very late that morning, but Hans didn't regret missing breakfast at all. 

By the time _Damocles_ swung north into St. George's channel, Hans reckoned that he'd done well to have visited Salem, witch-hunt and all. By Caernavon, above Cardigan Bay, he was beginning to plan a small sailing-sloop, one that could island-hop around the Caribbean, but need no more than two for crew. He had gotten well into provisioning his imaginary little sloop when _Damocles_ reached her anchorage at Liverpool. 

The last day aboard the _Damocles_ found Hans silent and preoccupied. From her chair on the deck beside Lady Phips, Rosemary would catch him watching her. She would look at him just in time to catch only the briefest hint of a smile before he self-consciously turned back to the duties he had assumed to reduce the deficiency created by the loss of five men. Doctor Adams had followed suit and, though the crew was not about to admit it, they were grateful for the assistance. 

Dusk ushered in a host of nagging insecurities that set Rosemary to wondering why Hans, previously so attentive, had kept his distance for most of the day. The uncertainty was not to last. As night fell, Hans approached her at their usual place by the rail. He met her eyes with a merry smile and enquired if she had enjoyed her day, if she was all right, if she needed anything. No, Rosemary responded, and turned the question back to him. 

'Are you all right? Is there anything you need, anything I can do for you?' 

Hans smiled, almost with relief, took her hands in his and knelt before her. His voice was husky with emotion, his eyes filled with such longing that Rosemary could hardly bear it. 

'I love you, Rosemary Alden. I desire nothing more than to spend eternity with you. Will you marry me, Rosemary?' His breath caught in his throat and held, his eyes fixed on her face with an almost desperate concentration. 

Rosemary's heart pounded so ecstatically that he could surely see its tempo through the cloth of her dress. From a distance it occurred to her that he was concerned she might refuse! For all her dependency upon Hans, it had not crossed Rosemary's mind that Hans had come to rely on her as well. His confidence gave the illusion that he was self-sufficient and, to the rest of the world, he was; only to her had he betrayed himself, leaving himself vulnerable and exposed to the pleasures and the dangers of her will. 

She nodded and laced her fingers between his as the first tear escaped and made its way joyfully along her cheek. 'Yes,' she breathed. 'Oh, Hans, yes!' 

He exhaled slowly as he stood and gathered her into his arms, holding her like never before. She could feel the beating of his heart more powerfully than her own, and she closed her eyes against the excruciating heaven that threatened to lift her right out of her being. So this, then, was love, the answer to the question she had asked of Lady Phips, but that Lady Phips had been unable to explain. Nor would Rosemary be able to explain it to another, not even to Sarah, for such a mystery transcended human comprehension. 

At mid-morning the following day they took their leave of the _Damocles._ Hans Kershner shook hands with Doctor Piers Adams and said goodbye. 

'It would appear I am indebted to you,' said the Doctor, 'for releasing me from my hell in the hold.' 

Hans shook his head. 'I keep no such records.' 

'I prefer to reconcile my debts promptly.' 

'All right, then. You provided assistance in getting Rosemary and Goody Miller released from Salem's jail.' Hans shrugged. 'That is enough.' 

The doctor regarded him warily, as though not quite taking Hans at his word. He gave a sharp nod, then... 'Done.' ... and disappeared eastward amidst the crowd milling about the dock. 

Lady Phips hugged Rosemary tightly. 'I do wish you and Hans would accompany me to London.' 

'I would love to,' Rosemary said, 'but Hans has other plans.' She blushed, despite herself. 

Lady Phips smiled. 'I don't doubt that.' She glanced to where Hans was speaking with the captain, and abruptly turned Rosemary away from them so the girl had to meet her gaze. 'Hans is a good man, and honorable; his experience, talent and skill afford him well to be, and you should follow his example whenever possible. But if the time comes when you cannot, without risking your life--and it will, Rosemary, count on it - remember all the things I taught you. Sometimes survival depends on more than the sword. We must occasionally resort to other methods, even when the notion is most abhorrent, to save ourselves. Don't assume that every other Immortal in the world adheres to the standards set by your husband. Such misdirected faith would be an automatic death sentence. I have one last gift for you.' She knelt by Rosemary's bag and slipped something inside. 'Remember that herbs lose their savor over time, so they'll have to be replaced.' She stood and smoothed her skirt. 'Take good care, Rosemary, and please stay in touch.' 

She hugged Rosemary one last time as Hans approached. 'Farewell, Hans.' Lady Phips offered her hand. 

'Until we meet again, Lady Phips.' 

§ § § § § 

They were wed three days later in a garden behind a small chapel. Rosemary was hardly aware of the priest, focused instead on her beloved Hans. She spoke her vows reverently, promising each word with all her heart and soul, 'til death alone should break the covenant and separate her from her first and only love. 

That night she presented herself to Hans in a scant gown of diaphanous lace, one of many parting gifts from Lady Mary Phips. 

Hans stared at Rosemary in the dim light, hardly daring to believe she truly belonged to him. His eagerness to take her had first been tempered by the knowledge that in loving her thus, he was helpless but to hurt her. The pain was past, now, gone the hesitation, and only the joy remained. Hans reached for his bride, teasing her lightly through the translucent chemise until her breath shortened and color rose in her cheeks. When she reached for his clothing, he clasped her wrists gently and held her helpless against him, exploring her at his leisure until her eyes begged her body's release. Hans lifted her in his arms and carried her to their bed and made slow, sweet love to his wife. 

Rosemary Kershner took refuge in the cherished promise of forever, the covert knowledge that she and Hans would never be apart. Her training would begin on the morrow; Hans had acquired for her a sword. He and Lady Phips had begun teaching Rosemary to write and to cipher while at sea. There were those other things Lady Phips had shared with her alone, poisons and potions that were fatal to mortals, but that worked in other, no less permanent, ways on Immortals. 

'There are things worse than death,' Lady Phips had told her. 

So much to learn, so many things of which she was yet innocent. Rosemary breathed in the warm, masculine scent of her husband and ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath and the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart. She closed her eyes and smiled blissfully at the memory of their lovemaking, Hans moving with her when she cried out in passion, tenderly kissing her tears away, holding her close until her senses calmed and she was ready to release him. He was so gentle and beautiful to her. 

Life itself was so beautiful to her. Rosemary knew it would not always be thus, that hard times and unhappy encounters were inevitable. As she dropped off to sleep on her wedding night, however, the harsh side of reality seemed very far away. 

§ § § § § 

Sarah Miller turned the heavy envelope over in her hands, looking at the good rag paper, the seal, and the unfamiliar hand. Slowly, she opened it, and read, _You were right, Sarah. I am the luckiest of women. If I had known in Salem what I now know, I would have been hanged as worse than a witch. I pray this finds you and your child well; All is well with me. Rosemary Kershner._

There was an 'X' after the name, the ink somewhat splotched because the hand holding the quill found it strange. 

In a postscript, the same hand that had written and addressed the letter noted, 'Rosemary is doing very well, indeed, and she has made a good match. I will return to Boston with the ship; please call on me if you can. Mary Phips.' 

The next letter Sarah received from abroad in the spring was intercepted by her husband, demanding to know who Sarah knew in London who might be writing to her. 

'Rosemary,' she stammered. 'Only Rosemary.' 

'That is not a woman's hand,' he retorted, and stood over her as she opened it, reading, _My wife has asked me to tell you that she is sending you a package. We hope you enjoy it._ Following that, in a child's unformed printing, was the message, _NEEDLES AND CLOTH. HANS IS GOOD TO ME. ROSEMARY._

It was three days later that the trunk arrived, heavy with the promised needles and fabrics. Spices, too, packed carefully in sealed tins, and tea. Sarah touched the contents of the trunk with reverent care. She would be able to use everything: it seemed a king's ransom worth of goods, there in the colonies. 

Rosemary had not forgotten. 

**1816, Switzerland**

Flowers and snowy white linen decorated the table. The food was exquisite and the wine was served in copious amounts. Acquaintances were renewed, introductions made. After coffee, the guests heard poetry recited by the author himself. 

Dinner was an unqualified disaster. 

The wheels of the curricle on gravel were loud enough to preclude conversation, for which Rosemary was grateful. Beyond the gates of Villa Diodati and into the town of Coligny the horses' hooves clopped loudly and the wheels sang. Conversation became possible again outside of town, on the road to Geneva, where the hard-packed dirt swallowed the sound of the horses' hooves. 

Rosemary flinched when Hans spoke through clenched teeth. 'Insufferable, cocksure snob!' 

Over the Jura mountains clung the last pale yellow swath of sky, and over their heads the crescent moon shone in the deep blue twilight. The scent of the woods surrounded them on what should have been a pleasant summer evening's ride. 

Rosemary tried to say something positive. 'I enjoyed hearing his poetry.' 

Hans sniffed. 'So did he.' 

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and waited for the next bump in the road. When it came, it brought forth another comment from her angry husband. 

'Did you see how disgracefully he treated his majordomo? And in front of us, to the poor man's greater humiliation?' 

Rosemary nodded, although she doubted he took notice of it. 

'Pompous, arrogant, self-centered ... ' For once, Hans was left speechless. 

The first stars began to twinkle in the deepening sky. Rosemary put her hand on her husband's thigh and patted it. She let the rhythmic beat of the hooves soothe Hans. 

After a few minutes, she made a tentative attempt to reconcile him to their first meeting with their host. 

'He is an excellent poet, very astute, and clever with words,' she said. 

Hans snorted openly. 'He'll agree with you, no doubt. Buy yourself Lord Byron for what he's worth, and sell him for what he _thinks_ he's worth, and you'll make a handsome profit.' 

'Think of what he might achieve in an Immortal's life span, how much he can write.' 

Hans spoke with disdain. 'He won't live long enough.' 

'But with Piers Adams as his teacher ... ' Rosemary stopped and corrected herself. 'I shall have to take care to call him Doctor Polidori now instead of Doctor Adams. With John Polidori as his teacher ... ' 

Hans called to the horses, urged them to step up their pace. 'Doctor Polidori dotes too much. I don't know if he's dazzled overmuch by Byron's talent or careless enough to join him in his bohemian games. He should be teaching him the sword, not swilling laudanum and telling stories.' 

They rode in silence for several long minutes. 

'Evenings were so much more entertaining when Milton stayed at the villa,' Hans asserted. 'There was an intelligent man who knew moderation.' 

'You might get to speak to Milton again,' Rosemary said. 'Mary Shelley said that Claire's trying to conjure his spirit back from the dead.' 

Hans' silence told Rosemary she'd made an error in sharing that information. She concentrated on the pools of light cast by the swinging coach lanterns and promised herself not to say another thing until they'd returned home. She craned her neck and looked for the houses of Geneva. 

'We'll return their invitation, of course,' Hans said. 'Courtesy demands that, but after that, I'll be glad never to see the lot of them again.' 

Rosemary cleared her throat. 'Mary invited me to luncheon Wednesday next.' 

She could hear Hans grinding his teeth together. 

'She told me that Byron won't see Claire unless there's someone else there,' she said by way of explanation. 

'Are they, after all, married or not?' Hans demanded. 

'After a fashion.' 

Hans made a derisive noise. 

Rosemary thought it best to say it all at once. 'Claire's expecting a child--not Byron's, of course, but she doesn't know of his Immortality and that he can't father children. Mary is, after all, her stepsister, and she can't abandon her, now can she?' 

Hans turned in the seat of the curricule to face her, his eyes unreadable shadows in the dark. 'Why would you agree to this subterfuge?' 

'I thought I was agreeing to a pleasant lunch. It wasn't until after I accepted the invitation that Mary told me the rest.' 

'So you're to act as some sort of bait to lure Byron to see his ersatz wife,' Hans summarized. 

'Yes.' 

To Rosemary, the few remaining miles to their home seemed to go on forever. She greeted Geneva's twinkling lights with relief. When the curricule stopped before their house, Hans stepped down and extended his hand to help Rosemary to the street. He bent over her knuckles to kiss her hand, then chafed it and gave her a rueful smile. 

'You're willing listen to hours of unbearably clever chatter by people who are far too much in love with the sound of their own voices? All for the sake of a hopeless marriage?' 

Rosemary shrugged her shoulders, a gesture of agreement and apology. 

'You, my dear Rosemary, are a hopeless romantic.' 

She smiled. 'Will you come?' 

He gave a sharp bark of laughter. 'You said Wednesday? I'll be cleaning the stalls that day, which I expect to be a more pleasant task.' 

'Hans, do you forbid me?' 

'No, no, I just would prefer that you not go to that villa while Byron is in residence. He has a terrible reputation. His father was a libertine and a wastrel, and he is, too.' Hans had shaped Rosemary into a very different woman from the girl she had been in Salem, long ago. He had done it so tactfully, so slowly, that she did not truly realize what had happened. 

'I thought it was established that we didn't have parents?' Rosemary put the question out of curiosity. 

'You know what I mean. There may be a title, but it's bad stock. His mother was never well-balanced, either, and his father went through her money like water.' 

'It's too late to regret now. It will only be for a few hours this afternoon, and I'll leave as soon as possible.' 

Wondering what the effect would be if he _did_ forbid her going to Diodati, Hans reluctantly went to ask the groom to hitch Molly to the gig. He thought about asking the boy to drive, too, but Rosemary would certainly consider that meddling. She looked so comely, dressed for the luncheon in a white sprigged muslin and hat. Still, she carefully wore creamy white goatskin gloves for driving. He handed her up, and tucked her epee under the seat. 

'Hans! I'm not going to be challenged at a luncheon!' 

'Forewarned, forearmed, my dear. I am telling you that the man is a predator, and I am probably remiss in not keeping you at home.' 

She bridled up a little at that, but shrugged, smiled, and bent to have her cheek kissed. Hans watched her straight back all the way to the curve of the road, and turned back to the stables. 

  
The late morning was so lovely on the road dappled with shade trees, that when Rosemary arrived at the villa, she was flushed with the pleasure of the pleasant drive. She looked forward to the hospitality of the women she had so recently met. She handed the mare over to Byron's stableman, and her step was springy as she walked through the vined brick archway into the garden. The little warning buzz, of course, would be Lord Byron, and she hesitated a little in her walk. 

'Ah, Madame Kershner! Rosemary, my love! 'She walks in beauty like the night!'' Lord Byron intercepted her at the gate, and bent over her hand. 

_There is a certain fillip,_ she thought, _in having a poet quote his own, flattering words about me._

Then he put his arm across her shoulders, pressed her against the wall, and attempted to kiss her. Rosemary twisted her shoulder, did a little pirouette, escaped his touch, and dropped a pretty little curtsy. The escape had been automatic, one of a vast array of evasions Hans had drilled into her. 

Rosemary gave Byron a chilly smile, and joined the ladies at table. She made it a point to stay with them. As she dined well and sipped a glass of wine, the thought wormed its way into her mind: _he was waiting for me, at the path he knew I must take from the stables to the garden. He pounced on me, almost as soon as I arrived, but still out of sight of the table. He thought ..._

Hans had called him a predator, and Hans did not use such terms lightly. With part of her mind, she attended to the gossip and chatter of the luncheon, but the fraction of her mind that Hans had honed to caution and foresight wondered just how far Byron might pursue. 

Finally, she was able to make her excuses, and sent to have the mare put to the gig for her trip home. When the stable boy brought it out, she looked at him carefully. He seemed a little odd toward her. 'I thought Molly might have picked up some gravel on the road. Would you check her feet for me, please?' 

As he bent over to comply, she also looked, carefully, for anything that might have been done to the mare or the gig. She felt uneasy, knowing she had done nothing to invite Byron's embrace. Hans had always repeated to her that the sensation of warning was valid, part of her own ability to protect herself. Still, nothing seemed amiss. 

Molly was trotting easily, a couple of miles from the villa when Rosemary heard a cantering horse behind her. Byron overtook the gig, and jerked his horse in front of the little mare. Rosemary drew up, and asked, 'My lord Byron? Had I left something at the villa which you have brought to me?' 

'You left me at the villa, and I would like to talk with you.' 

'You should have joined us for lunch. It was excellent,' Rosemary said, carefully reining the mare past the larger horse. 

'I wanted to talk with you, not the rest of them. Here, let me drive for you.' 

'Molly is my mare, and she is very soft-mouthed. Your handling would not agree with her. I will drive myself, thank you. If you will excuse me, I wish to go home.' 

'I do not excuse you, Madame Kershner. You have twice sampled my hospitality, and now I wish to sample yours.' 

_Byron's legs make riding a little difficult for him,_ Rosemary thought. _He does not ride as subtly as Hans can, and if he is not careful, he could be thrown. That horse is almost as irritated with him as I am._

'Mr. Kershner and I would be glad to return your kind invitation. I will speak to him to set a time.' 

'Your husband's company does not interest me, Madame, but yours does.' Byron was using the larger gelding to put his bulk over her, as she drove the gig. If he were nimbler, he would just slip down beside her, but he seemed uncertain if his foot would stand the sudden change of weight. 

'My companionship is exclusively my husband's, sir, and you are delaying me. If you would please excuse me, I have some miles yet to cover.' 

'Oh, spare me your excessive virtue. It won't matter, you know. I will say what I will say, and my reputation is such that I will be believed. If you are going to have the name ... ' 

Byron leered at her, reached out and jerked off her hat, tumbling her hair down across her shoulders. 

'My name, my lord Byron, is Rosemary Kershner. It has been my honor to carry it for some years, now, and I am pleased to continue to do so. I would not have the name of one of Byron's lemans. Now, sir, if you would be so kind as to excuse me.' 

As Byron reached for the mare's reins, he turned his horse at an angle to the gig. Rosemary's driving whip flicked the gelding hard enough to make him shy and buck, unseating his rider and cantering back toward the villa. He would not be easy to catch, either, she thought, and she should be well home before Byron was back on the horse. Mounting blocks were scarce between here and there: she hadn't even seen any likely rocks. She doubted that he could mount from the ground even if he caught the horse. 

_Let him limp back to Diodati._

  
For the duration of her journey, Rosemary remained acutely aware of her surroundings. Fair certainty of her safety wasn't certainty enough, and Hans had taught her well the wisdom of avoiding a confrontation whenever possible. In response to those times a fight was unavoidable, Rosemary had taken heads off opponents. With each victory she wondered if she would ever grow beyond the horror of the deed, or reconcile herself to the bitter satisfaction that was the result of winning another chance to live: 'So there. I will continue, and you will not. Had you only left me alone, your blood would not stain my hands, your memories would not taint my mind, and your essence would continue to breathe in the blackness of your own hard heart.' 

She knew what would happen. She knew Byron would keep his word and spread the rumors, and she knew Hans would reciprocate by taking Byron's head. She shuddered at the inevitable, wishing desperately for a way to end the conflict before it even began. Memory served her, rather unexpectedly, with a suggestion. Rosemary's heart constricted. It didn't feel right, but it was all she could think of to do. Reluctantly, she directed Molly along to Geneva, but instead of returning home, she drove to the office of Doctor John Polidori. 

He was expecting her, of course, as she had been aware of his presence before walking in. 

'Madame Kershner!' He smiled and graced her hand with a kiss. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I do hope you aren't ill?' He smirked at the joke and offered her a chair. 

Rosemary sat and managed a faint smile in return. 'I am well, of course, but I do need your assistance with a different matter.' 

The doctor leaned against a counter. 'And that would be?' 

Rosemary detailed the day's encounters with Lord Byron, trailing off when Dr. Polidori laughed. She waited, puzzled, for his response. 

'That's Byron, all right. He loves his women.' 

Rosemary bristled. 'I am _not_ one of Lord Byron's women,' she informed Dr. Polidori. 'Nor do I have any desire to be! Yet I still may be in trouble. Lord Byron assured me when I turned him down that he would spread rumors that I slept with him. Ordinarily I wouldn't care what anyone said about me, but Geneva knows Lord Byron much better than her people know Hans and me, and everyone here will believe that what he says is true.' 

'Afraid I don't have a remedy for that.' 

'But you do. Doctor Polidori, you are highly respected in this community. People will take your word above that of Lord Byron. Because of your close relationship with him, and despite it, people will trust what you say. If you refute his rumor and assure people that I have been faithful to my husband, they will believe you.' 

Dr. Polidori shook his head. 'Madame Kershner, Lord Byron's conquests--real or imagined--are not my concern. You need to take this matter to him directly so the two of you can solve it together.' His smirk came and went as Rosemary stood. He straightened at the anger in her eyes and cleared his throat. 

'Does Hans know you're here?' 

'My husband knows nothing yet of the things I have told you. Yes, Dr. Polidori, I could settle the issue with Lord Byron myself, but killing him is rather a last resort. That is why I came to you. You can prevent a battle, if you will.' 

Dr. Polidori started a little at the coldness in her expression, a chilling gaze he had seen too many times on too many faces in his own history. Nevertheless, 'Your problems are not mine, and I will not make them mine. Lord Byron's offenses are not mine to make right, and your husband's temper is not mine to control.' 

'You are indebted to Hans,' Rosemary reminded him. 'Have you forgotten Salem? How you died, how you were packed aboard the _Damocles?_ My husband released you from that cask! He nursed you back to sanity. He kept you from being thrown overboard in the midst of the Atlantic when the crew thought you a devil!' 

'For which he released me of obligation when we arrived in England.' The doctor's eyes were dark, and Rosemary unconsciously stepped back from the ominous stare. 'Salem bequeathed some of my worst memories in all the years I have lived, Madame, and I have lived for a very, very long time. I try to never remember that particular year or the torment I endured. Knowing you and Hans have taken residence in Geneva is nightmare enough, for the very sight of you reminds me of those things I've worked so hard to forget.' He stalked to the door and held it open. 

Rosemary made one last effort, anger and desperation straining her voice. 'Your memories would have been much worse if Hans had not taken a stand for you, and at the risk of his own life. He may have released you of obligation, Doctor _Adams,_ but the debt remains. Please recompense just a little of it now. Counter Lord Byron's lies with the simple truth. That's all I'm asking you to do. Tell them the truth, Doctor Polidori! Tell them I have been faithful! For Hans and me, and for your friend Lord Byron.' 

Dr. Polidori's face was taut and pale. Rosemary walked to the door and stared up into his eyes. 'You won't, then?' 

The response bit into her like frost on a bitterly cold morning. 'The most I will do is forget that you and Hans even exist, the moment you walk out my door.' 

The ride home was all too brief. Rosemary braced herself for what she had to tell her husband. She greeted Hans warmly with a kiss and held him close against the coming storm. Before he could ask if something was wrong, she told him the whole truth of her encounters with Lord Byron in as few words as possible, carefully omitting her visit with the doctor. One hundred twenty-four years of marriage had provided ample opportunity for her to experience the myriad facets of the incredible man with whom she shared her life. Still, she was unprepared for what followed, an uncharacteristic rage that only emerged when another threatened what Hans treasured above all else, including his own life. 

Rosemary begged him not to leave, reminding him that their dedication to one another had been challenged before. It was to be expected, when they were new to an area, that younger men would approach her when Hans' back was turned. They offered tokens of affection and flirted suggestively, but the youthful longing in their eyes could not approach the desire, frequently satisfied but never sated, that emanated from her husband's expression when he touched her with a glance, a brief smile that said what words were helpless to convey. Hans could love her within an inch of her life just by looking at her. 

Pleading that circumstances made the challenge hers to present, and the battle hers to fight, fell on deaf ears. 'A man has the right and the responsibility to defend his wife,' Hans informed her. 'Byron's confidence has led him to trespass too far.' Afternoon was dwindling toward evening when Hans left with murderous intent, and Rosemary held her breath against the sounds of hooves and wheels charging away. 

Night had fallen by the time Hans returned, walking, leading the horse. He explained succinctly that the cart had lost a wheel. Rosemary served their dinner without comment. Hans apologized for his outburst, though raw fury still flickered in his eyes. Rosemary spoke lightly throughout the meal in a futile attempt to distract him. She was gentle with Hans as she kissed his clenched jaw and took him to their bed, hoping that her love would deplete the passion and rage that tensed his every muscle in preparation for battle. 

Hans gave her his full attention and Rosemary thought perhaps she had succeeded. Afterward, however, instead of lying with her and drifting off to sleep, Hans gently detached himself from her arms, rose and dressed. 

'Hans, no...please.' Rosemary left the bed and reached for her gown. 

Hans took both her hands in his. 'I love you, Rosemary. You have been grossly offended. I might allow you to dissuade me from seeking retribution, were it not for the rumors. Already this evening, while making arrangements to retrieve and repair the cart, I heard gossip that will compromise your reputation, and mine. You don't deserve to be treated so shabbily, and I won't stand for it. Stay here and wait for me.' 

Rosemary trembled with fear and longing. 'I love you,' she whispered, and walked into the strong arms that always opened for her, closed securely around her, protected her from every foe without and within. Hans kissed her passionately and the merry smile momentarily softened his features. 

'Always,' he said, and was gone. 

§ § § § § 

Her first thought upon reading the note was, _they have the wrong man._ It could not have happened, would not have happened the way the message explained. She crushed the page against her chest, unwilling to breathe, lest the nightmare seep in and become truth after all. _Hans..._

The night was half gone and with it the boy who brought the letter to her door, placed it in her hands and disappeared into the stormy darkness like a bad dream. There would be no sleeping; she dressed and read the note again, and again screamed inwardly against its assertion before shredding the page and torching the pieces above candle flame. 

Morning arrived without her husband and she set about preparing breakfast in determined anticipation of his return. The sounds of hooves and wheels interrupted her reverie even as her heart nearly burst with joy and relief at the awareness of another Immortal. She hurried through the house and flung open the door so as to spare his hands the effort. But the man who stepped across her threshold was not her husband. Neither was he a stranger, though most certainly not a friend. 

'Madame Kershner,' he murmured, deferentially removing his hat. He hesitated over the words to come. 

'Dr. Adams ... Polidori,' she acknowledged stiffly, trembling at the chill between them. 

'I felt I should explain about last night's unfortunate incident,' he began. 'I trust you received my message?' 

'Did you come for my response, Doctor?' She reached behind the door and pulled forth her sword. 'Well, here it is!' 

Her blow was parried by a familiar blade, a weapon that had averted countless thrusts in the past from her own, neither in battle nor in anger, but through instruction and practice. She faltered at the sight of her husband's sword in the hand of his enemy--her enemy. 

'I came to deliver your husband's effects,' Dr. Polidori answered coolly, 'not to take his wife's head. I regret your grief, but it could have been avoided had your husband simply left matters alone.' 

'He was defending my honor,' her voice quavered with anger and desperate sorrow, 'for both our sakes. He knew I didn't do it--he knew I would never have degraded myself or betrayed my Love by sleeping with that vulgar atrocity to humankind you call a friend!' Loss turned to rage as she raised her sword again at Dr. Polidori. 'And you could have stopped the rumors! I begged you to stop them! Hans would not have confronted Lord Byron if you had done as I asked!' 

'Now, now.' The doctor stepped back to the threshold. 'I know Hans taught you to control your emotions. Unfortunately, last night he forsook the most basic of his own lessons. See that you don't make the same mistake. It's too bad, really it is.' The doctor placed the sword on a table beside the door and carefully put on his hat. 'Hans was a good man.' 

'On his worst day, he was more of a man that you will ever be,' she spat as Dr. Polidori backed out the door and nodded farewell. 

'Good day, Madame Kershner.' 

'There are things worse than death, Doctor. Don't forget that.' 

His eyes met hers for only a moment with an expression equal parts puzzlement and fear that quickly dissolved behind the smirk of a smile as he pulled the door closed behind him. 

Rosemary dropped her own sword as she stepped forward to take hold of her husband's weapon and hold it close to her body, dropping to her knees as the tears finally came, rending her very soul asunder, sentencing her to a bottomless chasm of horrifying emptiness, anguished loneliness stretching into infinity... 

'You killed him,' she whispered at the fading staccato of hooves, the creaking of the carriage, 'as surely as if you had wielded the sword yourself. Absolve yourself of blame if you will; but you won't forget, Doctor. The very sound of my voice will haunt you. My husband's blood will stain your hands forever, as surely as guilt will stain your heart. Lord Byron will suffer his own regrets, count on that. But you will also remember, Doctor. 

_Remember..._

**Present**

The door was locked and the lights were out, save the dim glow from above the bar. Joe, Duncan and Amanda glanced uncomfortably at one another as Methos concluded his story. 

Duncan spoke first. 'So you could have stopped it from happening. You could have stated publicly that Byron's rumor was a vicious lie. Hans and Byron might never have fought if you had simply spoke up and told the truth!' 

Methos glared. 'It was not my business and, therefore, not my place to interfere.' He gasped a short, angry breath and abruptly calmed. 'Hans was Byron's first conquest. Byron was high on laudanum. He drank the stuff like water; any normal person would have been dead and embalmed on the amount he had put away that night alone. Kershner had him dead to rights, and Byron was too stoned to know it. Kershner killed Byron, and the kid never even felt it. Hans knew Byron was as good as dead, and had no idea the kid would strike back; but Byron did, inflicting a fatal wound, then used the sword in his cane for the _coup de grace_. 

'And Hans lost his life,' Amanda sighed. 

'And Rosemary lost her husband,' Joe said. 

'That's not my fault!' Methos snapped. He traced a finger along the bar and watched every move his hand made, as though it belonged to someone else. 

'Given what we understand about medicine today, it is likely that Byron suffered from bipolar disorder, just as it is theorized that Poe, Schumann, Van Gogh and Hemingway probably did. After practically living with his moods and attitudes, I don't doubt that. Once Immortal, he knew the mental torture would last forever. Even considering that, though, Byron seemed worse than ever after he killed Hans. Rosemary held a memorial service for her husband, and Byron threw a big party the same day. Rosemary dropped in on the party after the service and mingled with the guests, partook of food and drink, then openly challenged him. Byron hid from her and refused to face her; the laudanum had worn off, and he wasn't prepared for a fight. She then challenged me. I refused her, too.' At Amanda's derisive huff, Methos turned his angry words on her. 'Maybe I thought it was about time she tasted a healthy bite of cold, hard reality. Maybe I thought it was about time Rosemary learned what it was like to lose everything that means anything! I let her live; gave her a chance to grow up and stand on her own strength, for once in her life. Gave her a chance to know how it feels to be utterly alone.' 

Methos took a drink and sat silently, his mouth twisted in resentment of the accusing eyes that stared him down. After a moment, he continued. 

'Ever after that, Byron was tortured by recurring dreams of the most dreadful moments of his life, by his own sense of worthlessness, of helplessness. I watched him suicide time and again, then go into long periods of rage and depression because he was unable to stay dead. Yet he was afraid to die, permanently. Byron had become an expert at avoiding battles because of his limp. He would never have fought Hans had he not been high on laudanum. Byron was a little bolder after that night, but he never fought without somehow injuring his opponent first. He considered it to be only fair, since his leg left him at a disadvantage. I didn't deem his actions to be so far out of line; he had to defend himself, after all, and I certainly wanted to see him live. Never has there been a talent like him.' 

'Yes. We are aware of the lofty opinion you held of Lord Byron.' Duncan glowered and turned away. 

'Yeah; and so was a very talented kid named Mike. So that was the end of Hans Kershner. What became of his wife?' Joe asked. 

Methos ran his fingers through his hair and shrugged. 'She left Geneva three days after Hans died.' 

Amanda glanced at Duncan with large, sad eyes. 'And was that the last time you saw Rosemary?' 

Methos went still, concentrating on the wall behind Joe. He glanced uncertainly at his three friends, at his hands, and finally looked at Duncan with bewilderment. 'I don't remember.' 

'No telling where she is now, or if she's still alive,' Duncan said, his voice still strained with animosity. 

Joe sighed heavily and made his way to the office behind the bar. He opened his laptop and waited for it to boot up, aware as he did of the three people filing in behind him. At the prompt, he typed in her name, Rosemary Kershner, and reluctantly pressed the 'enter' key. 

Red letters were displayed against a black screen: _ROSEMARY KERSHNER, aka ROSE MARIE KIRSCH, aka MARIE-ROSE KERCHER._ A large box in the upper right of the screen was empty but for the words _IMAGE UNAVAILABLE._

'Image unavailable,' Joe repeated. 'What'd she look like, Methos?' 

'I don't remember.' 

'That isn't going to be a lot of help.' 

_Date of birth: 1668 (?), Salem, Massachusetts_

Date of first death: August 1692, Salem, Massachusetts, victim of accidental fall onto pitchfork. 

First teacher: Hans Kershner (husband, married 1692) 

Occupation: None, although it is surmised she may have helped her husband in his various business endeavors as chandler, importer of goods from East Indies and West Indies, and banker. 

Current status: Unknown 

Amanda looked at Joe. 'Well, we don't know much that we didn't know before. Now what?' 

Joe's fingers played over the keys without depressing them. 'Now, we make a big pot of coffee and I search the data base for living and dead female Immortals who either died in the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century or who have no first death information recorded. Maybe Rosemary's got more than one identity and more than one file.' 

Duncan laid a single, heavy hand on Joe's shoulder, pushed himself to a standing position, and walked back into the bar, snapping on the coffee maker and loading a filter into its basket. Amanda sat in Duncan's seat. Methos still stared at the screen, stifling a yawn. 

'If you read the last chronicle entry on her, you might narrow down the search a little,' Methos suggested. 

Joe complied. _August 15, 1816. Madame Kershner is inconsolable since Monsieur's death two days ago, as unable as this Watcher is to understand how those events came about. As I stated in my closing report on him, Hans Kershner was a master of the sword. How, then, could he fail to follow one of the most important lessons he taught Madame--never lead with your heart but always with your head? An untried pup like Byron should not have been able to defeat him._

Madame has asked that her bags be packed, but she has told none except her maid where she will go. It is imperative that I find out her destination and contact the Paris office to have a new Watcher reassigned to her. Without the protection of her husband, I fear she will not survive long. --Ernst Seidenbinder 

'Maybe she's dead,' Methos said. 

Amanda scowled at him. 'If she was well trained, she might be alive. A lot of male Immortals underestimate women, and some of us know how to turn that to advantage.' 

Duncan returned from the bar as the smell of coffee began to permeate Joe's office. He kissed Amanda on the cheek and admonished gently, 'Don't give away all your trade secrets. I want to keep you around.' He looked at the screen and read the last entry on Rosemary. 

'Dead end,' Joe summarized. 

'Looks like it's going to be a long night,' Duncan said. 'Who's for coffee?' 

Amanda and Joe raised their hands but Methos declined, yawning. 'I'm just going to rest for a few minutes. Call me if you need me.' 

By the time Duncan returned with coffee, Methos had stretched out on the sofa in the far corner of Joe's office. He was snoring lightly before Joe had set the parameters of the first data search. 

The third pot of coffee ran out some time after dawn, and so had everyone's ideas. Search after search turned up many suggestions that Rosemary might be alive but few concrete leads. Amanda announced that she was going out to pick up breakfast. 

She returned forty-five minutes later with a large brown paper bag. Duncan upended the chairs from on top of a bar table and made room for the contents of Amanda's bag. 

'Orange juice, bagels--plain and stinky, I couldn't resist--cream cheese, and lox,' she announced. 

Duncan brightened and peered into the bag. 'Nova?' 

'I only buy the best, MacLeod, especially when you're paying.' 

Joe swirled the coffee pot, but the thin dark line on the bottom barely moved. 'Should I make a new pot?' 

'I'm coffeed out,' Amanda said, wrinkling her nose. 

'Me too, Joe.' 

As they set out breakfast and started to eat, Amanda tilted her head toward Joe's office and the persistent snoring sound that issued from the couch. 'I thought he said he couldn't sleep.' 

'Who knows?' Joe said. 'That's what he said, anyway.' 

Amanda picked up a scrap of lox and popped it in her mouth, staring past Joe's open office door. 

Joe spoke in a low voice. 'Sometimes I wonder which one is the real Methos.' 

'What do you mean, Joe?' Duncan asked. 

'Is he the altruist who tried to save his friend from being hanged in Salem or the ... ' he waved a hand in the air, unwilling to use the word, ' ... smug bastard who wouldn't say two words to preserve Rosemary's reputation--and keep Hans and Byron from fighting.' 

'Maybe he's both,' Amanda suggested philosophically. 

They ate the rest of breakfast in silence, each one struggling to stay awake. Duncan rubbed at the stubble on his face and suggested that a shower and a few hours' sleep might do them all some good. They agreed to meet again at noon, and Amanda volunteered to clear the table, which she accomplished by sweeping the empty containers, paper plates, and cups into the paper bag. 

Duncan was looking for his coat when they heard the yawn and turned to find Methos, arms stretched over his head, smiling. 

'If it isn't Sleeping Beauty!' Joe said. 

'I thought you couldn't sleep,' Amanda teased. 

Methos rubbed his hands together. 'I got a full night on Joe's couch, half a night on MacLeod's. I'll bet that's the secret. I think that I'll sleep on the couch tonight.' He surveyed his three tired friends. 'So, what have you found out?' 

'Nothing useful,' Joe said. 'And we're going to bed. Be back here at noon and ready to go through all of the photos of female Immortals that I've got on file. Maybe if you see her, it'll jog your memory.' 

'I could look now, if you'd like,' Methos said. 'Make a pot of coffee to wake you all up.' 

Amanda stared; Duncan glowered; Joe gestured toward the exit with his cane. 

'Out,' Joe said. 'Come back at noon.' 

§ § § § § 

For mortals, there were ghosts. For Rosemary, there were sudden chasms when everything stopped because she caught a glimpse of a man who moved like Hans, or tilted his head a certain way, or had a barrel chest. Once, she'd followed a man for blocks along the Rive Gauche, because his shoulders, his swinging walk were so familiar. He spied her in several shop windows, careful as she was, and turned to make her acquaintance. 

He threaded his way to her quickly, gracefully, and when he reached her, he looked down into eyes brimming with tears, and dimly heard a mumbled apology that trailed off ' ... someone I once knew.' Before he could reach out to comfort her, she had dodged into a shop, somehow gotten out the back, and disappeared. Cursing himself for a fool, he spent days wandering the blocks where she had followed, but by then, she was in London. 

On a red-eye flight to the States, she had asked for a change of seat because the man beside her wore an old cologne Hans had sometimes used. He had blond, curly hair, was rather thin and clean-shaven, but the scent pulled at her, and she didn't dare let herself sleep in the seat beside him. 

She left a theater because one of the actors had a merry grin she could not endure. Hans was everywhere and nowhere, and the worst of it was, she could hear his voice in her mind, advising, explaining. When she had taken up his sword to learn to use it, he had not objected, but had just explained what she must do to learn to deal with its different balance and weight. 

His knowledge of fighting was encyclopedic, and everything he had ever taught her had stuck in her mind like burrs on a dog, even if she thought she had forgotten. The first head she had taken with Hans' sword was like a valediction, and she drank up the Quickening like champagne. 

She traveled restlessly, the money from Hans' various investments making more money to ease her way. On one Atlantic crossing, safe on a huge liner, she had clung to a rail, laughed into the teeth of a hurricane, pretending that the wind and rain in her hair were Hans' fingers, until one of the stewards shepherded her back to her cabin. 

There were always men on the lookout for women like Rosemary: Young, wealthy, unaccompanied. She became very adroit at evading them before it even came to a touch. At night, she slept with a pillow along her side, to imitate a little the solid bulk of Hans. 

Byron was no longer alive, she knew, but somewhere in the world was the Immortal who had taken his head. 

And then there was Piers Adams, or whatever he was calling himself these days. 

When Mary Phips had given her the little bag of herbs, so long ago, everything had been carefully labeled with its name, its uses, and sometimes warnings. Lest they 'lose their savor,' as Mary had warned, Rosemary had renewed them, often enough. She had seldom stayed anywhere long enough to have her own herb garden, but the one she thought would serve her best grew wild, practically in all temperate climates. 

_Datura stramonium,_ Mary's careful cursive had labeled it, noting that it was related to belladonna, tinctures of which had been used by some women to counterfeit the large-pupiled eyes that Hans had seen. It carried alkaloids, Rosemary now knew: Atropine, which urged the heart to race; scopolamine, sometimes used as a truth serum, as it freed users' tongues. It could induce a twilight sleep: a muzzy state between sleeping and waking, suggestible, but with imperfect memory for the time. 

§ § § § § 

How odd, how fitting, that when Rosemary had traced Adam Pierson to Seacouver, there should be a local playhouse putting on _The Crucible._

Watching it, Rosemary knew that someone on stage was her own kind, but she wasn't sure which of the actors wearing clothes so familiar to her it might be. There was someone in the audience, though. At one of the breaks between acts, she had finally winnowed the audience enough to see the man, dark-haired, graceful, leaning against a wall. 

Then she caught her breath: weaving its way back and forth across his fingers as if by itself was a gold coin, just as Hans had exercised his hands for dexterity. She had teased Hans about it: that he would be robbed by someone just for the coin. He had quirked an eyebrow at her, swept her up in his arms, and nuzzled her throat, laughing, 'I am not such an easy mark as that. You want the coin? Have it,' he'd said, tucking it down her bodice. 

She could still feel his hand, warm, the coin between the first and second fingers, deep between her breasts. As the house lights dimmed, the footlights came up: she could see the coin, winking as it threaded its way through the fingers of the hand as she watched. The man looked nothing like Hans, and yet ... there was something similar, something beyond appearance. 

She missed the entire second act of the play, watching a gold coin in an unfamiliar hand with her head cocked like that of a dog who listened for a beloved voice. 

§ § § § § 

'No more dreams?' Joe grinned at Methos. 

'I slept,' Methos told him, 'all morning. Deep, uninterrupted, restorative sleep. No more dreams. It's over.' 

'You mentioned that this problem has happened before; the insomnia, the nightmares.' 

'It comes and goes.' Methos leaned against a barstool. 'I'll be fine for years, and then the nightmares will start. They'll torture me to the point of mental and physical illness for weeks, and then...' he shrugged ... 'they're gone, with no more warning or explanation for their leaving than for their onset.' 

'Gone.' Joe frowned. 'How often do they recur?' 

Methos exhaled, weary of the subject, and laughed as though quaintly amused. 'I don't remember.' He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. 'They have no schedule. They just...happen. But they're over now, and I'm fine.' He smiled. 'I have some catching up to do. See you later.' He ambled toward the door. 

'Where are you going?' Joe demanded. 'Duncan and Amanda will be here in a little while. You agreed to look through the database with them and see if any of the photos jog your memory of Rosemary Kershner.' 

'I changed my mind.' Methos turned. 'If I began looking up all the Immortals, living or dead, who took turns avenging themselves on me in my nightmares over the past several weeks, I truly would be here forever.' 

'But you seemed more focused on your memories of Salem and of Hans Kershner's death. The common denominator in both of those events is Rosemary Kershner.' 

Methos knuckled his eyes. 'Perhaps the reason Salem stood out to me is because of that bloody play endlessly extolled by Amanda. If you want to pursue information on Rosemary Kershner to satisfy Amanda's sympathy and appease Duncan's horror at my sin of omission, then by all means, help yourself. But don't do it for me. I lived through those situations once, I've relived them in my dreams a thousand times, and I would be blissfully euphoric if I could rest assured that I would never hear the names of Salem or Kershner again.' 

Joe snorted with disdain as the door closed behind Methos. A telephone call from Duncan immediately followed, expressing his and Amanda's regrets that they were unavailable after all; obligations had arisen regarding _The Crucible._

Joe prowled through the bar, wiped imaginary specks of dust, caressed his guitar, and sighed with frustration. His work was done, his nap was out, and he was experiencing one of those rare moments in which he had little to do. Well then, if not for Amanda's sympathetic concern or for Duncan's anger at Methos's blatant disregard of a friend in need, then to occupy a little time and satisfy his own curiosity: Joe tossed the rag aside and hastened to the office to sit before his computer. 

'All right, Lady Kershner,' he addressed the monitor. 'You must have left a clue for me somewhere. I don't intend to pry into your whole life story. My friends and I just want to know that you're still out there, and that you're doing okay.' 

When staff arrived that evening, Joe was still at his computer, and he was still there when the curtain rose on _The Crucible_. With silent apologies to Amanda for missing her performance on opening night, he kept working until he tapped into a file summarizing unidentified Immortals. He glanced through notes and pictures as the slide show proceeded across the screen. There were five unknown women in the group, but only one was young enough to be Rosemary Kershner. Joe opened the page and read through it again. Beside 'NAME' was a series of question marks, and only a few sketchy details offered hints as to the woman's identity. They paralleled the scant information Joe had learned about Rosemary, but were hardly enough to boast a positive identification. The Watcher had first seen her when she was confronted by, and defeated, his assignment. He recorded comments about her remarkable fighting skills and took note that she appeared to be completely alone. Unable to learn her identity, the Watcher followed her for a week, until she noticed him and vanished as though she had never existed at all. He was left with myriad unanswered questions, several days' worth of memories and one photograph, all of which he dutifully submitted to the Watchers' permanent files. 

The picture was an old black and white. Judging by the subject's clothing and hairstyle, it was probably taken in the late forties after the War. The woman was portrayed from the waist up, in profile. She was young, in her twenties, and her hair was light, a shade of blonde. She had been captured on a quay, gazing wistfully across the water. 

Joe studied the photo, drawn into the longing of her expression; she appeared to be on the verge of tears. His first thought was to call Methos and ask him to drop by long enough to verify whether or not she was the lady they were looking for, but Joe hesitated. If this was Rosemary, Joe wasn't sure he really wanted Methos to see her. He felt oddly protective toward the young lady who was far older than he was, or would ever live to be. 

'I've been at this gig for too long. I'm getting soft,' Joe grumbled, rubbing his eyes. He sent the photo to his printer, then shut down his computer for the night. An hour later, he was still going over printed material with a red pen and a highlighter, cross-referencing and marking notations that provided definite information about Rosemary Kershner. 

The young woman in the photo leaned against his computer, her pleading eyes ever searching across the water for solace from her yearning. 

§ § § § § 

The audience greeted the performers with a standing ovation. Rosemary stood with the rest, but her eyes were not directed toward the stage. It was still there, between the first and second fingers of his left hand, even as he applauded. 

The coin disappeared into his palm as he turned and made his way to the backstage door. Rosemary stared at the place where he had stood until she found herself also standing there, hardly breathing, as though in the man's passing, some aura of her husband might have remained. 

The theater emptied as patrons made their way to the lobby. Some of the performers, remaining in character, were signing autographs. Compliments, laughter and well-wishes drifted to her from the crowd. Rosemary felt very alone. She touched the wall against which the man had leaned, but it wasn't even warm. She walked through the doors into the lobby and reeled at the abrupt proximity of two Immortals. She turned to face them, not ten feet away: the man who possessed the coin and, in his embrace, one of the actresses from the play. They both stiffened and turned at her approach. 

'Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod,' the man said, sizing Rosemary up with one sweep of coffee-colored eyes. 

Rosemary searched his face, desperately, her heart breaking again at the feeling that if she just searched long enough, deeply enough... 

He stared back at her, curious and alert. Rosemary stood, uncertain, until the actress interrupted their mutual study. 

'I'm Elizabeth Proctor,' she said with a harmless smile. Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she added, 'otherwise known as Amanda. And you are?' 

They made such a lovely couple, looked so happy together, and Rosemary resisted giving voice to her thoughts. _I wish you both Forever..._ Rosemary stumbled over her usual apology about mistaken identities without ever stating her name. She had the wherewithal to compliment Amanda on her realistic performance, specifying the very nuances that Amanda could not have known to add, had Methos not told her about the real Elizabeth Proctor. Willing away the tears, Rosemary slipped through the crowd and away from the theater with her customary stealth, so natural by now that she automatically made herself invisible to anyone by whom she did not wish to be seen, or pursued. 

Hans was gone, Sarah long since deceased, and Rosemary had lost contact with Mary Phips many years before. She longed for friends, for companionship, but was afraid to trust. She wished she had a place to call home, and people with whom to share it, but restlessness drove her constantly onward in a futile search for something to fill the emptiness that could only be filled by Hans. Grief rent her heart as it was frequently wont to do, startling her with the depth to which it still could reach after more than one hundred eighty years. She started her car and pulled away from the theater and drove aimlessly, allowing the hurt to run its course. She helped it along by diverting her thoughts to the reason she had come to Seacouver. 

Doctor Piers Adams, Dr. John Polidori, Mr. Adam Pierson was still alive. She wondered how he was doing. Lady Mary Phips had warned her of the permanent effect that at least one poison would have against Immortals, for even their healing abilities failed to promptly correct the poison's damage. Rosemary wondered if the alterations brought about by the _Datura stramonium_ remained effective in Doctor Adams' system after all these years. 

§ § § § § 

Joe glanced at the clock again; he had expected Duncan and Amanda to stop by. It was quite late and the play would have concluded long ago. Customers had dwindled to a couple in the corner, but closing time was more than an hour away. Joe wandered to the stage, took up his guitar, and began the skilled, effortless release of a day's frustrations. 

§ § § § § 

Weary from driving, she parked across the street from a pub. It was very late, but a sign announced the place was still open. Rosemary had never really developed a taste for alcohol, and she had not touched it at all since Hans' death, unwilling to compromise her senses for even a moment. It was enough that she must forfeit awareness for sleep. She could use a soda, however, and wasn't quite ready to return to the confinement of her hotel room. 

The place was practically empty, but there was music. A solitary gray-haired man propped against a stool on the stage, communing with his guitar. Rosemary walked to the edge of the stage to watch and listen, only to find herself the object of surprised scrutiny. The musician glanced at her, smiled happily, did a double-take and stopped playing, one hand suspended in midair, as he stared. 

It was all Rosemary could do to keep from rolling her eyes. She sighed with disappointment, squared her shoulders away from the man, and walked to the bar wondering if she sported a target on her forehead that announced her unwed status to the world. 

Joe traded guitar for cane and made his way to the bar. He studied the woman carefully. The computer-scanned photo in its shades of yellowish-gray might, or might not, represent the young lady who perched stiffly on the stool. Her hair was indeed blonde, though it tumbled loose below her shoulders, a more natural look than the careful coiffure in the photo. The picture was a profile, from a short distance, and this lady met him face to face. Joe resigned himself to his impossible lack of information. After his day-long pursuit of one woman and his frustration with the fruitless search, it would be entirely too easy to deceive himself. 

He realized he was still staring, and that she was meeting his effrontery with a chilling gaze of her own. 

'Is there something wrong?' Her voice was civil, but conveyed an unmistakable warning. 

'I ... ah ... ' Joe hastily stepped forward to apologize. 'I'm sorry.' He smiled and held out a hand. 'Name's Joe Dawson. I meant no offense.' The woman tentatively placed her hand in his, her eyes fixed on his face to assess the sincerity of his words. 'It's just that ...' Joe gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. 'Well, for a minute there you reminded me of someone else.' 

He was startled when the woman's eyes fill with tears. She clasped his hand a little tighter, hid her face in the crook of her arm, and started to cry. 

Joe got himself sat solidly on a barstool, and pulled her gently toward him. Over her head as he held her, he caught the eyes of the couple in the corner, and nodded toward the door. By the time her crying had subsided to jagged hard breathing, he had settled on a way of dealing with her. 

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, handed it to her, shifted her from where she had sagged against him to standing on her own two feet again. Keeping her face hidden against his shoulder, he slipped off the stool and walked her over to the best table in the house: the one directly in front of the performance area. 

He sat her down, made a few more trips back to the bar for a pitcher of ice water, one of cola, a bottle of rum, and glasses. He made himself a cuba libre, set it beside the stool where he usually played, and spoke to her bent head. 

'What you need, lady, is a good dose of the blues.' 

Deep Delta blues he played, his voice an edgy rasp compounded of too much booze, smoky rooms, and sets played to drunks. He knew he'd pay for it later, but ... Three in the morning blues, after a bad day. Songs of hopeless life, ugly death, aching loss and love that was wrong in the first place. He couldn't see her face, veiled behind the hair that had fallen forward, but he knew she was in there someplace. 

Her unsteady hand poured a glass of ice water, dipped the handkerchief into it, and wiped her face, pressing the icy cloth to her eyes. In the middle of a song about a woman whose drunken husband had beaten her, whose oldest son was facing execution for a murder he really had done, Rosemary raised her eyes to stare beyond him, seeing in her mind the pictures his voice drew. Joe had quite a repertoire of these songs, created by people with few resources besides their own voices, borrowed instruments and rented courage. 

As he drained each glass of rum and cola, she would mix another for him, bringing it over to set on the floor beside his stool. After the third one, she began to clear tables, carrying the glasses to the bar near the sink. 

She stood behind the bar, washing glasses, rinsing, sloshing them through the sanitizer solution, setting them to drain on the grid. The blue light under the bar made her look spectral, almost insubstantial, as if she might fade back into her memories. 

She didn't actually look at Joe, and she only returned to the best table to mix his drinks. As she cleared tables and washed, moving around the bar, she began to really look at her immediate surroundings. The work busied her hands, freed her mind, let the songs seep in past her defenses. 

When the glasses were washed, all the tables wiped, she returned to the table where Joe had set her up. This time, she mixed two cuba libres, delivered one to Joe, and sat with her legs stretched toward the stage area. Absently, she wound her hair back up and pinned it. She pulled in a deep breath, held it, and when her lungs refused to be still, let it out with a huff. 

Joe finished the last rum and coke, flipped his glass, and set it upside-down on the floor. She nodded, cleared her own table, collected his glass, and washed everything up. He cased the guitar, switched off the lights at the breaker box. Under the red glow of the EXIT sign, he fished through his pockets for the deadbolt's key. 

'C'mon. You could do with a shower,' he offered, and without waiting to see if she accepted, opened the door to the street. 

§ § § § § 

'Feel better?' 

Rosemary considered the man who had picked her up in his own bar, brought her back to his own apartment, and pointed her into the shower. She was wrapped in one of his bathrobes, her still-wet hair pinned up, curled up with her legs under her in an overstuffed chair, as if she had sat there every morning for years. 

She did feel better, she was surprised to realize. Not like she had when Hans was alive, but better than she had for a very long time. She drank greedily from a tumbler of orange juice she had watched him finish squeezing and handed her with a flourish. She ought to be dead tired, she knew, but somehow she wasn't sleepy, and the juice seemed to promise more. 

It was still in the apartment, the stillness of a quiet pool of water. Joe was sprawled on another couch, his head back on the arm on it, and he began with a small pebble tossed at the surface. 

'When I understood that my legs were gone, they had to strap me down to the bed. I thought that everything I was, everything I could do, had gone with them.' 

'I got word that my husband was dead, from a man who could have prevented it. Hans was my whole life.' 

'You're young. You couldn't have been married for very long.' Joe wore no smile as he said this, and his voice carried only a mild invitation. 

'Longer than you'd think. I was very young when we met.' She looked at him, her mouth quirked, and she added, 'He rescued me. Knight-in-shining-armor style.' 

'Horse and all?' 

'Actually, yes. Horse and all. Then he married me, and changed my life completely. I could never have imagined what my life would be, before Hans. He showed me the great cities of the world. He knew them, the languages, the customs. All the little out-of-the-way places that only the local people know. The best places to eat, not the tourist places.' Thinking about it, she was utterly relaxed, her gestures and voice bespeaking a time when her life had been wonderful. 

'What was he like?' 

'He was strong. He was sheltering, I knew he loved me, and I thought he'd live forever.' 

'Nobody lives forever,' Joe reminded her, and then found himself wondering what that merchant's wife had known, when da Vinci had painted the _Mona Lisa._ Had she known what Rosemary knew? Were they making small talk during the sitting, when Leonardo, knowing beyond his time, had made some comment about living forever? 

The reminiscent ripples had lapped shores of the little pool, died, and it was still again. There was a knock on the door. 

'Joe! You've gotta be up by this time! Hey, the sun's over the yardarm. Time for a beer!' It was the voice of a man well rested, eager for a new day. 

Joe sat up and reached for his cane. Rosemary stretched luxuriously, unwinding herself from the chair and placing her glass on the coffee table. 'I'll get it.' She smiled as she stood but accomplished only two steps toward the door before stopping, motionless, as though she'd run into a wall. 

By then Joe was on his feet. 'Aw, that's all right, I'll ...' He saw his visitor's tense expression and stopped. 'Are you okay?' 

'Is he a friend of yours?' she asked, staring hard at the door. 

Joe shrugged. 'Well, yeah, something like that.' 

Rosemary backed toward the hall. Her reverie vanished as abruptly as it had taken her, and she offered a self-conscious smile as she picked at the robe. 'I'd better get dressed.' The bathroom door closed behind her almost before she finished speaking. 

Joe opened the door, annoyed at the interruption, and set forth to enlighten the intruder. 

'You know, I'm not the only barkeep in town. If you want a beer at this hour, get one out of your own fridge at home.' 

'I don't have any more at home.' 

'Then run down to the corner mart and buy yourself a six pack!' 

Methos stood well away from the door, hands loosely at his side, eyes keenly alert. 'Is Mac here?' 

'No. I haven't seen him or Amanda since yesterday morning.' Joe relented a little. 'How did opening night go?' 

'You know better than that,' Methos said, still focused over Joe's shoulder. 'There's not enough love or money in the world to coerce me to see that play.' 

'Unless beer was involved,' Joe retorted. 

There was a brief, patronizing smile, and Methos finally looked at Joe. 'So who's your guest?' 

'A young lady came in late last night, pretty tore up. She needed a shoulder. I brought her here to clean up and relax for a little while, maybe talk if she feels like it.' 

'What's her name?' 

'I don't know.' Joe's irritation returned. 'We hadn't gotten that far yet. I was headed in that direction when you arrived. Since when are you so interested in my private life?' 

'Since when do you baby-sit young Immortal ladies?' 

Joe flinched and leaned back against the doorframe. His thoughts slowed, backtracked and began to replay, recalling his mistaken identity of the young woman and the reference she had made moments ago regarding her knight in shining armor, whom she had thought would live forever. 

Methos tilted his head curiously. 'You didn't know.' 

Joe shook his head wearily. 'I thought ... I mean, when she first showed up, I ...' It came together, then, in a rush, the reality and its implications. Joe glanced Methos up and down: sweat shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, but no sword. The young lady was also without her weapon, unless she had found a way to fold it up and hide it in her purse. That, at least, was a blessing. 

'Why don't you continue your beer expedition elsewhere, and I'll sit down for a heart-to-heart with my guest. I'll open up around noon, if you want to stop by then.' 

The photograph, Joe was thinking, was useless as a reference, and there were no pictures to identify Rosemary Kershner. The obvious similarities between his guest and the lady in the photo might very well mean they were the same person, however, and Joe was suddenly anxious to ask her name and learn more about her. 

And then he was suddenly anxious about something else. 

The young lady had spoken her husband's name. _Hans..._

'I'll see you later.' Joe flicked his hand at Methos as though waving away a messy dog. 

'Fine, I'm going.' He half turned. 'You really ought to put a little extra effort into your PR. If this is an example of how you treat all your customers, it won't be long before you don't have any.' 

Joe responded with something akin to a growl and backed into the apartment. 

'Oh, and attitude is everything,' Methos goaded with a grin. 'You're a terrible grouch in the mornings.' 

Joe heard the bathroom door open behind him, saw Methos stiffen, and reached for the door. Methos put out a hand to stop him as the woman walked into view. Methos stepped through the foyer into the living room and stared at the lady, who regarded him in return, Joe thought, as though she had simply been waiting for him to arrive. 

§ § § § § 

Rosemary moved with the swift precision she had practiced for so many years. Her clothes hung neatly on a hook behind the door and as she dressed, she released a portion of her mind to the memory of Hans' voice, cautioning and advising her as to the impending encounter with another Immortal within the confines of a small apartment. 

Her long coat and sword were in the back seat of the rental, which was parked across the street from Mr. Dawson's bar. Rosemary retrieved her purse from the counter by the sink and slipped her hand inside, caressing the cool metal of her little automatic. Her insurance policy, she liked to call it, though no one knew her well enough to be privy to such information. Rosemary took out a small makeup bag and applied a bit of color to her face, then removed the pins and brushed her hair; it had dried while twisted into a bun, and the resulting curls fell loosely about her shoulders. She was aware of the effect her appearance had on other Immortals, especially when she left her hair casually down; the impression of youth and inexperience, the innocent smile she could so easily produce, brought about assumptions that had instigated the downfall of many an aggressor. 

The voice at the door had startled her, and she had wanted to see who possessed one so similar to another that remained so acerbic to her memory. Then she had sensed the speaker's Immortality and wondered if he might her old nemesis, after all. 

She knew Adam Pierson was in Seacouver. She wanted to find him, but not to fight him; as far as she was concerned, he could live forever. _There are things worse than death, Doctor._ Rosemary knew he had learned that at least once. She wanted to make certain that he remembered; she had no further concern for Adam Pierson than ensuring that he never, ever forget. 

Rosemary swallowed hard against bitter disappointment. She had hoped to spend more time in Mr. Dawson's company; she had not felt so comfortable, or comforted, in the presence of another person in ... she shook her head a little ... in all the years since Hans was killed. _He sang for me,_ she thought, and her smile felt genuine. _He sang for me._ He had cared for her. Oh, she had forgotten how it felt to have someone care for her, and even more to have it openly expressed with a song and an opportunity to talk about her life. She wanted to tell Joe things about herself that she shouldn't share with a mortal, and she wanted to learn more about him in return. _I just need a friend,_ and Joe might have been that friend, except it appeared he had other friends who shared a common trait with Rosemary that all too frequently culminated in a fatal encounter. 

One last glance in the mirror, one last trailing of her fingers over the gun. Whoever he was, it was time for introductions. Rosemary snapped and shouldered her purse and walked out of the bath, down the short hall and into the living room. 

As she did, the man at the door pushed past Joe and stopped within a dozen feet of her, staring as though watching a ghost resurrect from the mists of his most deadly dreams. 

§ § § § § 

It was an encounter that never could have been scored to the blues, Joe thought, but instead to something filled with high, skittering notes, an ominous bass line, and the disquieting tension of a chord that doesn't resolve itself to major to let the audience release its breath and rest. He swung his cane forward to stand between them and then thought the better of it. 

He strove for ease in his voice. 'You two know each other? Adam Pierson, this is ... ' 

She stood and waited a beat, testing the other Immortal to remember, challenging him to remember. 

'Rosemary Kershner,' Methos said, meeting her eyes. 

Joe did move between them then, speaking a little too fast, a little too cheerfully. 'How about I make some coffee? It's a little early for beer, for everybody except Adam.' 

They both tensed, and Joe stood between them with his jaw set, determined to prevent an encounter, certain that preventing one would be impossible. 

'Coffee would be nice, Joe,' Rosemary said, her eyes never leaving Methos. 

Joe sensed the dismissal in her voice and regretted the offer immediately. He calculated how long he would be in the kitchen, out of their sight. 

'You know? I think I'm out of coffee,' Joe said. 'Maybe we should go out.' 

Methos took a folded newspaper from under his arm and put it on an end table. He turned to face Rosemary, his hands loose and relaxed at his sides, his eyes burning with concentration. 

'Look on the top shelf, Joe. There's an unopened can there,' Methos said. 'New box of filters, too.' 

Joe looked at them, knew himself to be unregarded, and left the room. 

'What do you want?' Methos asked. 

Rosemary spoke in a staccato whisper. 'I want to know who killed Byron.' 

'I don't know.' 

'I don't believe you.' 

'Believe me, don't believe me, Rosemary. It's all the same. Why do you want to know?' 

She swallowed hard, opened her mouth and closed it without speaking. 

A knock at the door interrupted them. Joe crossed the room to open it, relief plain on his face. 

MacLeod stood in the doorway. 'Morning, Joe. Amanda wanted me to stop by and ... ' He stopped when he stepped into the apartment. 

Joe tried to say something but held back, devising and discarding lines, waiting to find the right time to say them. 

'Joe, why don't you take ask MacLeod to take you out for that coffee you want so badly?' Methos said, never turning away from Rosemary. 'Everything will be fine here.' 

Joe looked pleadingly at Duncan, who was surveying the other two Immortals. His eyes lingered on Rosemary's small purse, on their empty hands. Then he nodded to Joe, opened the door, and led him outside. 

'I want to know who killed Byron,' Rosemary repeated, her voice louder now. 

Methos' lips pressed together for a split second; his eyes flicked toward the door of Joe's apartment. 'I don't know.' 

Rosemary looked at the apartment door and back at Methos. Realization dawned on her. ' _He_ killed him? Your friend?' 

Methos bit off the words. He swept one arm toward the door, bitterness and anger growing. 'Yes. My friend killed my friend. Isn't that enough for you?' 

Rosemary tilted her head to one side and then to the other, releasing tension in her neck. She pursed her lips. 'It's almost enough.' 

She reached into her bag, slid her hand past the comforting, solid weight of the gun, and retrieved a pen. She leaned over Joe's coffee table, jotted a few words on the back cover of a magazine, ripped the glossy page off, and handed it to Methos. 'Tomorrow. Midnight. Meet me here. I'll find your friend first and see if you're telling the truth. If you're a man of honor, you'll meet me tomorrow night. If you're not a man of honor, then I'll find you again.' 

'Forget it, Rosemary, I'm not a man of honor.' 

'You coward!' Rosemary spat the words at him. 

'Some want me dead for what I've done, you want me dead for what I haven't done. Get in line.' 

Before she could construct a retort to this, Methos had snatched her purse out of her hands. He opened it, found the little gun, emptied it of its shells, and returned it to the purse, dropping the ammunition into his own pocket. 'Sit down. You need an attitude adjustment.' He twisted her arms to place her in front of the overstuffed chair, and shoved. She sat. 

Methos paced in front of her, taking five steps toward the kitchen, five back. Each turn was toward her. He never showed his back, only his face, like the moon. 

'By my calculations, you and Hans were married from 1692 until 1816. Is that correct?' His voice was cold, inquisitorial, a voice she had heard before, in Salem. 

'Yes.' 

'That's a hundred twenty-four years. You celebrated two golden anniversaries, and were coming up on another silver, right?' 

'Yes.' 

'And in all that time, neither of you was ever sick, you had no children die untimely, and you were cushioned from the realities most people take for granted by Hans and his money, is _that_ correct?' 

'Well ...' Rosemary temporized, 'Yes.' 

'Hans died suddenly, painlessly, and you didn't spend years nursing him, watching him waste away through a painful terminal illness, did you?' 

There was a long pause from the woman in the chair. 'No.' 

'So, you see, Rosemary, there really _are_ things worse than death. There's watching someone you love die, at length, knowing you are utterly helpless to prevent it, or deflect any of the anguish to come. You had over a century of a good, loving marriage, and it ended. Since then, you've spent the best end of two centuries pining for a past that was far longer and better than you had any reason to expect when you were growing up in Salem. Give it up, Rosemary. Grow up.' 

She sat there, breathing hard. How dare he? He was the one in the wrong here, he had let her husband go to his doom, just because that leering poet's silly ego had been hurt. 'You ... ' 

Methos raised a weary hand. 'Caroline Lamb had it right, you know. He really _was_ 'mad, bad, and dangerous to know.' He got worse, more destructive as time went on. Think about the situation in 1816. Your husband was a fine swordsman, in the best of health, no handicaps, and Byron ... had his problems. He stumbled out of a small orgy to meet Hans. I begged him to give way. 

'I expected that Kershner would knock him around a little, give him a spanking, force him to recant, and send him home with his tail between his gimpy legs. An educational experience. But Byron was so high on laudanum that he took a mortal wound and kept on. Your husband died because he hesitated to take Byron's head. That hesitation cost him his own. If he had meant to end Byron, he could have. He did not. 

'Byron was not so civilized. It happened so fast, it was just ...done. 

'And there's something else. Byron had his genius, his fame and infamy at the time. Today, most people have never heard of him. But Frankenstein is a name everyone knows, and _he_ was the creation of Mary Shelley, one of the women Byron so casually used. Mary tapped into an archetype beyond anything Byron ever touched, for all his sensation seeking. 

'The great Lord Byron is dead, and a monster that was never alive in the first place, lives on. How's _that_ for justice? 

'As for you, if all you can do is live in the past, then Immortality is wasted on you. If you really want to die, I will oblige you. But think about it, before you challenge me. I'm not your husband, I'm not chivalrous, and I won't hesitate.' 

So, he does still have a back, Rosemary thought, idly, as it disappeared out the door, and the last thing she saw was the bony fingers of his hand, pulling it softly shut behind him. 

Rosemary took a cab to Joe's bar, and her own car to her hotel room. She threw her coat on the bed and herself after it without bothering to open the thick curtains and admit the light of day. Hans' sword was in her hands, and she didn't stop to wonder how it got there; enough that it was. 

Like it or not--and she didn't--Adam Pierson's words had convicted her deeply. The voice of reason from the mouth of an enemy had focused her rudely on herself. The emotions roiling within her heart went still when he spoke, suspended as though awaiting her command. 

Memories came and went, and this time she let them; didn't try to control them, encourage or prevent them, sort through them in order to relive the ones she enjoyed the most and discard the rest. She simply made herself available and allowed them to approach. 

Her thoughts wandered to Romania where, a century ago, Hans had introduced her to a former student. Hans and Ladislaus Dracon greeted one another enthusiastically and spent hours behind their blades, half-competing, half-instructing, one eager to see what the other had learned, and the other desiring to try his skills against the man who first bequeathed them to him. Rosemary was not taken with this man to whom her husband referred as Vlad, and found his residence even less appealing than its master. It was built of stone and decorated sparingly, and its rooms seemed to gather shadows on even the brightest of days. 

'Welcome to my home. Of course, it isn't Bran,' said Vlad. He smiled at Hans and gave a little shrug that indicated Hans knew the rest of that story. Rosemary didn't ask for detail and Hans offered none, but when she sat with them in the parlor late into the evenings, she learned of the life Hans and Vlad had shared, and their conversations introduced her to aspects of her husband she would never have imagined. She listened to them talk of ancient wars, sat wide-eyed as they discussed various methods of slaughter until, cursing the strength of her imagination and the weakness of her constitution, she excused herself upon an hour and wandered greenly from their presence to walk the corridors of the miniature castle. Rosemary tolerated the visit for the sake of her husband. She was hard-pressed to believe the half of what she heard, and when Vlad exulted in memories of eager female conquests, she lowered her eyes so they would not call him a liar. She wondered that he could successfully entice a woman even a little with the mere benefit of his appearance; in Rosemary's estimation, he hardly had the pulchritude to carry it off. 

Her heartbeat slowed, her hands relaxed on the hilt, and she allowed her eyes a slow parade around the room, lingering on shadows that reminded her again of those weeks spent virtually alone while Hans paid a visit to his past. When they left, Hans talked for days about his years as cupbearer and personal bodyguard to the alleged Prince. 

'You were such good friends; why did you part ways?' 

Hans had nodded as if he expected the question. 'I trained Vlad daily until he grew beyond his need of me. I remained until he was capable of defending himself and even prepared to take a student of his own. At that point, it was time for both of us to move on.' Hans had ridden silently for a while before summing up the lesson. 'If you dwell in one place beyond your appointed time, Rosemary, your life will grow stagnant.' 

Rosemary stared at the textured paint on the ceiling, and waited. Lady Phips spoke next, using the straightforward voice with which she had informed Rosemary that all Immortals were sterile. Rosemary had protested with a heartbroken wail, which Lady Phips had promptly silenced. 'You have everything, Rosemary; everything but this one thing. There is no perfection, not even in Immortality. You have to take the bad with the good, and it is your own choice as to which you will allow prevalence over the other. You will decide whether to dwell on the positive or on the negative, and thus your life will be.' 

Sarah's voice broke softly in, speaking words that were written in a letter: 'I envy you, Rosemary, though it be a sin to harbor such feelings. You are blessed with more happiness than most women will ever know. What a joy it must be, to be wed to such a husband as your Hans.' 

Rosemary slept with Sarah's words yet speaking in her heart. She dreamed of her youth in Salem when life was harder but more easily explained. When she awoke two hours had passed, and she felt the need to escape the impassive room. 

She walked to a nearby park and seated herself on a bench before a lake. Swans graced her with their presence, swimming languidly by as though aware that their beauty alone was reason enough for having been placed on the earth. 

'You have been married before,' she had once said to Hans, inquisitive but hesitant to intrude. 

He nodded. 'Twice.' Sensing the questions she wanted to ask, he answered them and spared her the effort. 'I loved both women with all my heart 'til death took them from me. Had my experiences with two mortal wives not been so exceptional, there is no way I could have fathomed being married to the same woman forever. I simply did not believe I would ever be so blessed...' He reached out to Rosemary and caressed her face until she turned to him. He kissed her slowly, tasting her, commanding her senses completely toward his will to love her, and finished the thought, '...until I met you.' 

'I don't know how to live without you,' she whispered, but it was a lie. Hans had taught her to survive on her own, against the possibility of his death. His very life was an example of how to live: responsible, self-respecting and aware, open to the capriciousness of Life and to the people who passed through it. Learning from Love how to love even more with each opportunity, not allowing yesterday's loss to rob him of tomorrow, though perhaps it dim, for a while, today. 

Grief ruptured the vault that walled it away, and tears emerged in a silent march of tribute, cleansing the heart from which they flowed. Injustice stepped aside and self-pity slunk away until all that remained was the hurt of a very old wound, finally being purified and properly treated in order that true healing might begin. 

Always she would ache for the warmth of his skin against hers. That merry smile was emblazoned forever in her memory. She would yet search for those enigmatic gray eyes that could be cold and calculating when Hans faced an opponent, infinitely wise when he instructed a pupil in his mastery of the sword, and fiercely gentle when he swept Rosemary into his arms and laid her across their bed. Hans had strengthened her weaknesses, and made her strengths stronger than she would have imagined they could be. 

Rosemary had learned years ago that Byron was dead, but wanted to test Adam for the truth, well aware that he would probably know who had taken Byron's head, and with it the essence of Hans. She was startled, but not very surprised, to learn that the man who caught her attention in the theater had concluded Byron's life. She was more astonished to see that same man standing in the doorway of Joe's apartment. Duncan MacLeod, he had called himself. And now that she knew his name, what? Rosemary wasn't a killer, any more than Hans had been. Rosemary had never issued a challenge after confronting both Byron and Doctor Polidori on a day they refused to fight her. She had faced many other opponents and stood her ground once the gauntlet was thrown, thus learning to fight and win real battles and accept the force of the Quickening deep within her own. It wasn't in her to challenge Duncan MacLeod and attempt to take his head, even for her covert desire to have what remained of Hans' spirit joined to that of her own. 

Hans was not vengeful and had not taught her to be. Among the first words he had ever spoken to her was a clear preference against fighting. 'The essence of protecting someone lies not in drawing your sword but rather in avoiding situations where it is necessary to fight. Once the blade is drawn, you have already failed.' It was best to avoid a fight whenever possible, he had continued; when confrontation is inevitable, keep your emotions under control. 'You can't do anything about other people's actions, but you can control your own reactions, and that is enough.' He had said it with such confidence, because he knew he was right. Rosemary closed her eyes against her own choices since his passing. When had she forgotten? 

Rosemary stood and took one last look across the lake. 'I love you,' she whispered, and closed her eyes against the breeze that lifted her hair, as though Hans' fingers again caressed her cheek. 

_Always,_ sighed the wind. 

Rosemary made her way slowly toward the hotel, inviting new thoughts in to replace the old. The question arose of where she should go from here. She had revisited every place she and Hans had ever gone; what if she traveled somewhere different, that they had never seen together, and made a brand new memory that was exclusively her own? If she could go anywhere at all in the world, where would she choose? She was surprised that several places immediately came to mind. She picked up her pace, already making travel arrangements and committing them to memory as she walked. 

Packing was a small effort, quickly accomplished. The last item to be wrapped for travel was her sword. Rosemary removed it from the sheath and studied a weapon she had not used since her husband died. Hans had given it to her the day after their wedding in England, and it had won her battles before she put it away and took up Hans' broadsword. A decision faced her, already made, waiting only to be done. Rosemary committed the lighter weapon to the sheath inside her coat and sat on the bed, holding the other to her chest, weeping tears of release and gratitude. Wrapping Hans' sword carefully, packing it away, was a heartfelt benediction to all she had been and a tentative awakening to all that she yet might be. 

Adam was guilty of Hans' death and would forever be. Holding him responsible, blaming and punishing him, would not bring Hans back. Nothing would ever do that. Rosemary still felt Adam deserved to suffer; how ironic that the words of this very man had opened her eyes to the expense of such single-minded vengeance, paid forth in her own endless mourning that could find no resolution until she released her angry need for justice. Even as she let go, just a little, she felt the grief following the grudge out of her life. 

Rosemary inserted a loaded clip into her automatic and tucked it back into her purse. As she did, her hand brushed across a small envelope. She removed it with a wry smile. Adam had been so intent on the gun that he had missed the true weapon. Ah, well. She hadn't figured out how to administer it to him anyway. As she sat on a chair before the desk, another memory returned to mind. 

Rosemary had listened, enchanted, as Lady Mary Phips spoke in 1692 of her visit to Hispaniola five years before. While her husband, William Phips, and his crew worked to salvage treasure from the sunken _Concepcion_ , Lady Mary was left to her own devices for nearly sixty days. She used the time to explore and learn, to increase her already-abundant knowledge of herbs and poisons and methods by which to neutralize an enemy, whether mortal or Immortal. She had shared the wealth of her knowledge with Rosemary. Despite all that she had learned there, however, Lady Mary had discovered that one of the most effective and deadly poisons was a common variety of nightshade that grew in wild abundance across the North American continent: an ordinary weed that, in 1676, mentally incapacitated a group of British soldiers who consumed it in the Jamestown colony. It was said that some of them even died. Every part of the plant was poisonous. Lady Mary had occasion to use it against one Immortal, then another, and made a terrible discovery: some of the mind-altering effects were permanent. The amount that killed a mortal effected changes in the Immortal that were not purged from the body, as were other lethal drugs, but left traces that came and went, it would seem, into infinity. 

_Datura stramonium_ produced delirium, convulsions, coma, death. Immortals, Lady Phips said, stopped with the delirium, but it had been her experience that the delirium itself never stopped within its Immortal host. It might suspend for years at a time, but the effects would relentlessly return. 

The bitter taste was its primary challenge, but the one time Rosemary had desired to poison an Immortal, she had found it no challenge at all. Knowing Byron's weakness for drug-induced highs, she had simply conspired with one of Byron's jilted lovers. Assured that Byron would only experience bad dreams, the woman had presented him with a wondrous new tea that offered a high unmatched by even laudanum. Byron had drank it, goaded Doctor Polidori into sampling the stuff, and the damage was done. 

At least, it was done to Bryon. Rosemary had been curious as to whether the doctor had consumed enough to produce the desired results. In the event it had not worked then, she had intended to see that it worked now. _There are things worse than..._

Rosemary folded the envelope and returned it to her purse. Life being what it was, she might need the dried leaves for self-defense at some point in her vast, wide-opened future. She opened a desk drawer and removed a pad of stationery and began to write. 

_Dear Mr. Dawson._ Rosemary ripped off the top sheet and started over. _Dear Joe..._

When that letter was completed, she dug into her luggage for the small case filled with herbs and seed that accompanied her throughout her travels. She lifted out a small, dried sprig and carefully placed it in an envelope. She returned to the desk and sat, pen raised, at a loss for what to say. Adam Pierson had not interfered on behalf of Lord Byron, either, she thought, beyond urging him to refuse the fight Hans offered. Pierson must be a horribly self-serving person. He had attempted to rescue the mortals in Salem's jail and had gone overboard in an ocean storm in order to rescue Lady Phips. What had happened, Rosemary wondered, to change him? Perhaps he had ever been thus, helping here, refusing there, as taken by whatever whim. She shook her head and wrote her message and sealed it in the envelope with the small herb branch. She carried her bags down and loaded them into the rental and checked out of the hotel. 

§ § § § § 

Rosemary sensed the other Immortals as she entered. Duncan and Amanda turned at her approach. She did not see Joe. 

'Rosemary,' Duncan nodded. 

She flinched at the sight of the coin in his hand, making its way back and forth along his fingers. Rosemary forced her eyes back to Duncan's face. 'I'm leaving, and I wanted to say goodbye to Joe. How is it,' she wanted to know, 'that Joe has so many Immortal friends?' 

'Just lucky, I guess,' and Duncan grinned. 

'Is it true...' She faltered, straightened up, and asked. 'Is it true that you killed Byron?' 

Duncan fidgeted uncomfortably. 'Yes. That's right.' 

Rosemary went still, at a loss for a response. She was helpless but to stare again at the coin. Duncan noticed and stopped its course, holding it flat on his palm. Rosemary nodded toward his hand. 'You shouldn't do that in public. You might be mugged,' she said carefully, 'for the sake of that coin.' 

'For this?' Duncan laughed. 'I'm no' such an easy mark as tha',' he responded. 

Rosemary winced, and pulled herself back from the usual tears. Instead, she forced a smiled. 

'Here,' Duncan said. He caught her left hand, placed the coin on her palm and curled her fingers around it. He smiled back, and her breath caught with a little pang at his closeness. 'You may have it: something to remember me by.' 

Rosemary held the coin in her hand, lowering it into her pocket without ever looking at it. 'Thank you,' she said. Duncan reached out to brush a stray wisp of hair from her face, and Amanda offered her a business card. 

'If you never need someone to go shopping with, share some girl talk,' she explained. 

Rosemary read the card and looked to Duncan, askance. He read it, too, and rolled his eyes. 

'Amanda, that's _my_ card!' 

'I travel a lot,' she explained to Rosemary. 'But if you want to get in touch with me, Duncan can always track me down. Just tell him you need to find Amanda. He'll do the rest.' She smiled at Duncan mischievously, and his expression confirmed her win. 

'I'll get Joe for you,' Duncan offered. 'He's out back taking care of a delivery.' 

'No, don't bother him.' Rosemary had decided she really didn't want to say goodbye. 'Would you give him this for me?' She held out an envelope. 

'Be happy to,' Duncan said, 'but he'll only be a minute. Sure you wouldn't rather do it yourself...' 

Rosemary shook her head. 'And would you give this to your friend, Adam Pierson, please.' Duncan took the second envelope without comment. 

Amanda stood and wrapped Rosemary in a hug. 'Take good care of yourself,' she said. 'Call me sometime.' 

'Thanks,' Rosemary said. 'And thank you.' She held out a hand to Duncan. He clasped it, kissed it, and drew Rosemary into his embrace. The security was short-lived, but it was there, and a little of it stayed with her when she stepped away. 

Rosemary paused at the door for one last look at Duncan MacLeod. Fingering the gold coin in her pocket, she left Joe's bar, got into her rental car, and drove away. 

§ § § § § 

Joe and Methos entered at the same time, from opposite doors. 'This is for you.' Duncan handed Rosemary's envelope to Joe. 

'What is it,' he asked, as he tore the flap and pulled out the letter. He read it all the way through, cleared his throat, and read it again. He looked the envelope over for markings and, finding none, threw it away. He folded the letter and placed it in his wallet. 'She just wanted to say thanks,' he told his three friends. 'I think she's going to be all right.' He turned and disappeared toward his office. 

Duncan studied Methos for a moment. 

'What? If I missed something, good, I don't want to know. I just dropped by for a beer.' 

'She left this for you.' 

Methos stared at the envelope as though it were a snake coiled to bite him. He blinked, and it didn't. 

'Take it, already,' Duncan ordered. 

'She has nothing I want,' Methos snapped. 

Amanda snatched the envelope from Duncan's hand and tucked it into Methos' pocket. 'That young woman has been through hell because of you. If she wants to leave you a farewell note, the least you can do is read it.' 

'Farewell?' 

Duncan nodded. 'Rosemary's gone.' 

'Where?' 

Duncan shrugged and turned away. 

'Fine. Blame me. You know, MacLeod, we have opposite ways of dealing with things that leave us with identical problems. You get too involved in people's lives, and judge me for not being involved enough. Yet we both cause problems by the way we live, and both of us justify them to ourselves in whatever manner is necessary in order to be able to live with our consciences. Which sin is worse, MacLeod, commission, or omission? You tell me that!' Methos marched to the door, opened it, and turned back. 'Either way, we both have to live with the consequences!' 

The door slammed behind him, and Joe returned to the bar. He studied the expressions on the faces before him and made a professional suggestion. 

'Anybody want a drink?' 

§ § § § § 

The plane leveled off and Rosemary opened a small book, empty but for lined pages. She took out a pen and began to record the events of the past two days. Though she had only been twenty-four years old when she died, that was so many lifetimes ago that she frequently caught herself concentrating to ensure she was remembering certain details correctly. If still uncertain, she would check her own diaries, meticulously recorded for over three hundred years, the cursive leaning gracefully to the right, exactly the same today as it had ever been since Hans taught her to write. They were stored at various sites across two continents, these little journals of her life. 

Jovial laughter erupted across the aisle, laughter that reminded her of Hans, and Rosemary turned to look at a man with thick white hair who was talking with the child in the seat beside him. A grandchild, Rosemary thought. The man noticed her peripherally and turned to smile into her face. Rosemary didn't look away or seek refuge in the bathroom or ask to have her seat changed. Controlling her emotions, she met his gaze. 

'Sorry, young lady. Am I disturbing your peace?' He had thick eyebrows and a mischievous grin. Hans might have looked something like this man, had Hans ever grown old. 

'Not at all.' Rosemary smiled. 'You remind me very much of someone I once knew.' 

The man leaned toward her and lowered his voice, as though speaking in confidence. 'I do hope he was an upstanding sort of fellow.' 

Rosemary laughed out loud. 'He was wonderful!' She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and offered her hand. 

'I'm Rosemary.' 

§ § § § § 

The envelope dropped out of the pocket as Methos draped the coat across a chair. Reluctantly, he knelt and picked it up, thinking to throw it away and be rid of the aura of a most unwelcome encounter. 

Amanda's words played through his mind. _The least you can do..._

That's all I'm asking you to do. Tell them the truth... 

Guilt made for a sorry companion in the best of circumstances, and Methos had so long made a practice of pretending he never felt guilt that he had come a long way toward convincing himself of the reality of the lie. No point in thinking he might have been wrong about this or that; what was done, was done, and no amount of thinking or wishing or second-guessing would right any wrongs or cancel any regrets or make a ruined life whole again. 

He opened the envelope and dumped out the contents. Into his hand fell a dried sprig of rosemary and a note, an entire message contained in one solitary word. Methos read it, and read it again. He got the message. It wasn't a threat or an attack or a plea of any kind. It was merely a farewell. Rosemary had not absolved Adam of blame, had not released him of responsibility for his neglect. She was not forgiving him, or offering any explanations or apologies of her own. She had, however, released herself of the animosity long harbored in the wake of his disregard, and of the grief that could not heal until the hostility cooled. She had left Adam Pierson to the mercy of nightmares that would not exist, were they not of his own making. 

His words had the desired effect on her, then. Perhaps, though neither of them was ready to acknowledge it yet, he had helped her in some small way, after all. 

Methos opened a cabinet and took out an aged volume, opened it and laid the dried sprig of rosemary between the yellowed pages. He closed his original edition of _The Vampyre_ and returned it to its shelf. 

He carried the note to the kitchen and attached Rosemary's final word to the front of his refrigerator, where he would regularly have occasion to read it, and remember. 

§ § § § § 

_But touch my tears with your lips  
Touch my world with your fingertips   
And we can have forever   
And we can love forever   
Forever is our today... _

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Round Robin Home 

© 2003 Wain, Palladia and Storie   
Please send comments to the author! 

General Disclaimer: the concept of Immortality and any characters from the _Highlander_ universe belong to Davis/Panzer Productions, et al. No copyright infringement intended, there is no monetary gain, yadda yadda yadda. 

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